


Only the Nightingale Sings

by MithrilWren



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beau Being Her Badass Self, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Convoluted Dwendalian Politics, Courtroom Drama, Ensemble Cast, Gen, Implied Torture, Imprisonment, Mind Manipulation, Mysteries Wrapped in Mysteries, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Power Dynamics, Rescue Missions, Sensory Deprivation, Slow Burn Thriller, Suspense, The Soltryce Academy, Trent Ikithon Being an Asshole, Worldbuilding, campaign 1 spoilers, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2019-11-05 05:45:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 123,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17912900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MithrilWren/pseuds/MithrilWren
Summary: The Xhorhasian infiltration of Felderwin fails, but Yeza's still missing, and all signs point towards Rexxentrum.While scouting the back alleys of the city, the Nein are saved from a near-deadly ambush by the worst possible guardian angel: Trent Ikithon. Just like that, the casters of the party wake to discover they've been made unwilling students of the Soltryce Academy, trapped under the watchful eye of the faculty. As Caleb tries to hold himself together in the face of Ikithon's resumed tutelage, the rest of the scattered Nein scramble to find each other, find Yeza, and most importantly, find a way to get them all out of Rexxentrum alive.





	1. Arrival

_~The Seer’s Scroll~_

_The familiar letters interweave amongst wisps of vines and little blue birds, painted with such delicate care that they seem almost to breathe as the sign swings gently in the breeze._

_Caleb used to spend his free hours here, curled into a dusty corner and evading the sunlight. That is, for the first few months, when he still had free hours to spend._

_It seems wrong that the sun should shine so brightly now, that the clean marble streets should glimmer and the wind be warm and pleasant and the passersby walk arm in arm without a care. Like nothing at all has changed in the last 17 years. Nothing at all, except him._

_Caleb squeezes Nott’s hand a little tighter and pulls her past the shop before she can point out the books on the windowsill. He doesn’t want to see anything here that still feels like home._

\---

The journey from Felderwin to Rexxentrum is easier than any of the Nein anticipate. Three days on the cart: no blockades to skirt, no bandits on the road. Nothing to delay the inevitable. No distraction in which to slip away.

The first night, Jester’s message to Yeza ends with vacant silence, and the three of them – Jester, Nott, Caleb – sit up for hours waiting for a response. The second night, Jester returns from her blank stare with a few scant words. _Put me in a room. Can’t talk._ Confirmation that Yeza isn’t dead, that their purpose is waiting for them, somewhere.

Yeza. Nott’s _husband_. Oh, gods. And Caleb knows all about dark rooms. He knows all about not being able to speak for fear of the punishment his words might draw. His mouth draws tighter with each mile they put behind them. 

He should run. He _has_ to run. Rexxentrum will be the end of them all if they’re caught. The group isn’t ready to take on the Cerberus Assembly, much less the whole might of the capital, and to get Yeza out they may have to. But still, they’re rushing along, pretending they have any hope of succeeding, and he knows his warnings are useless in the face of blinding desperation. He knows it too well.

He doesn’t get the chance to run, that first night.

(That’s a lie. There are opportunities. He doesn’t test them.)

The second night, he takes first watch. He gives himself the chance. He gathers his coat and his components and stands and… hesitates. Looks at Nott, curled around her flask and tossing in fitful sleep. Looks at Jester and Fjord and Caduceus and Yasha, tangled in a protective pile over the haversack and its damning cargo. Looks at Beau, slumped against a wagon wheel, and remembers how sure her hand felt on his shoulder. Remembers how all of them will cease to exist the minute he steps outside the circle of firelight.

_Your people did this._

If he goes now, Nott won’t follow. He knows that.

_It’s_ your _people._

Every mile towards the capital is one step closer to each and every person that wants him flayed and quartered. Isn’t it more dangerous for him to stay?

_Don’t run._

If Nott’s husband dies for his cowardice, it’ll be one more unforgivable thing he has to mend. He doesn’t think the world will give him a second chance at a miracle.

_Don’t run._

When he wakes Beau for the next watch, she knocks him on the shoulder with her staff, just hard enough to bruise. He closes his palm around the stinging spot as he lays down, presses hard until the pain begins to bloom. For a moment, his body feels very _real_ , in a way it hasn’t since they left the coast.

She’d been the one to suggest he take the post alone. Seems no matter what, he can’t stop rising to her challenges.

On the fourth day, they break over the crest of the endless hills and there she is: rising from the earth in immovable white grandeur, the capital of the Empire. The mountain at her back presses into the half-ring of stone walls that encircle the city. The cart plods closer, and the walls loom higher, and they all know it’s far too late for him to run but that doesn’t stop Fjord from yelping in protest as Caleb leaps through the illusion onto the side of the road.

The wheels of hundreds of wagons and the feet of beasts and travellers alike have worn deep grooves into the dirt all along the highway. Caleb thrusts his hands into the brackish water collecting at the bottom and pulls out handful after handful of mud. As he climbs back into the cart, the pouch hanging at his hip slaps wetly against the brace. He cleans his hands on his trousers and ignores Jester’s wrinkled nose.  

The gates are as easy as the rest of the journey. Fjord’s honeyed words get them past the officers at the guardhouse with only a brief inspection, and Caleb pulls his hood up around his face and holds onto his last moment of freedom before the iron bars swung shut at their back. Suddenly, it hurts to breathe.

They hitch their horse and cart at a stable near the gates, and Caleb bangs his elbows down onto the wooden trestles of the enclosure, burying his fingers in his hair. Nott, ever at his side, doesn’t react to the outburst. She just stares off down the wide street into the broader city with a faraway look. He’s used to her flinching at loud noises. The stillness is somehow much, much worse.

They’re here, and now what? What in the nine hells can they do? Yeza’s being held in a room, sure, but this is a city of thousands. They’ve got nothing to go on, no idea where to look.

Rexxentrum seemed vast beyond measure when he was fifteen. Endless streets branching off between districts, taverns and shops and three-story apartments over tanneries and bazaars, and all roads leading in spokes to the city center. He still remembers with perfect clarity how lost he’d felt back then, staring down this main street with nothing but the clothes on his back. How it felt like the whole world lived in this city. All the buildings of Blumenthal could have fit in the first three blocks. In five minutes he saw more faces than he’d seen in all his life. This was a place he could get lost in the crowd, and never find his way again. It was utterly terrifying.

Now, the crush of bodies is the only solace he has against the anxiety of everything else that might be watching, and he slips into the anonymity like a warm coat.

Jester, unsurprisingly, takes to the city streets with enthusiasm. Her sharp eyes land on every sweet shop, ribbon stand, and person of oddity that they pass by. She dashes back and forth across the street, following each new wonder with endless exuberance. Caleb’s eyes are only for the soldiers. When he glances at Yasha, her gaze holds the same wariness.

The war has come to Rexxentrum as plainly as the ruined fields of Felderwin. Instead of spiralling smoke from burnt crops, the evidence here is in the horde of Crownsguard patrolling each intersection, the busy rushing about blacksmith shops, the shuttered doors of the amphitheatre that once put on weekly blood contests for the pleasure of the jaded masses.

(He never went to see the fights himself. He’d meant to, with some of his more adventuresome classmates, but then there were private lessons, and then there was no time, and now he’s glad he never got the chance.)

“Where do you think we should start?” Jester asks, finally tired of the thoroughfare’s distractions. Her attempted whisper becomes more of a shout to rise above the sound of so many footsteps. Caleb grabs her arm and begs her with his eyes to shush. Not here. Not out in the open, where anyone could be listening. _Please_.

She looks at him strangely, but quiets. He thinks that a few days ago, she would have protested. Maybe they’re all starting to understand each other a little better.

“We should find a place to sleep,” Caduceus suggests, and yes, that sounds good. That sounds prudent. Best to be anywhere but on the street.

\---

“So, what’s the plan?”

They aren’t going to get much safer than here, all crosslegged in a circle in some tiny tavern bedroom. But to Caleb it doesn’t feel safe, not with six sets of eyes turning towards him. For so long, the group asked no questions, required no explanations. Now, he’s the sole focus of attention. They’re trusting his recollection of the city to lead them true, but those were memories from another life. He doesn’t want to rely on anything that he remembers from back then.     

“Can you send another message?” he asks Jester, deflecting till he can catch his breath. “We need more information.” His fingers worry the charred bits of paper from Yeza’s basement. They aren’t any more illuminating in this light than they were back in Felderwin. 

“Of course,” she hums, and sits back on her heels. “What should I say?”

“Tell him we’re in Rexxentrum,” Fjord says.

“Tell him to tell us what the place he’s in looks like,” Beau says.

“Tell him I… um,” Nott trails off. “Tell him Veth misses him. If you have space. It’s ok if you don’t.”

“Of course I will.” Jester smiles and wraps Nott in a one-armed hug, then closes her eyes.

“Hello, it’s me again, Jester!” Fjord’s fingers dance nervously in his lap, counting out the words. “We’re in Rexxentrum, in the Lion’s Rest Inn. Can you…” She glances at Fjord, who mimes the number ten. “... tell us… about where they took you.” Three fingers. “Veth misses you.” Caleb quickly buries his face in the notes so Nott doesn’t see his expression crumple.

A minute or so of breathless silence, then Jester pipes back up. “He says that they took him underground, that there are guards with black armor.” She turns her eyes to Nott. “He said to tell Veth he loves her.”

Nott lets out a rattling sigh and slinks back out of Jester’s embrace.

“Any of that ringing a bell?” Fjord says to Caleb. He shakes his head, tries to keep his voice steady.  

“I’ve never seen Crownsguard with black armor. And most of the Cerberus Assembly wear robes. Mercenaries, maybe?”

“That seems reasonable,” Caduceus muses.

“As for the rest- there were… there were chambers.” _Why am I telling them this? I’m only encouraging them._ “Beneath the Academy. We students weren’t allowed to enter without supervision.” Every word burns on the way out, and so he keeps his voice dull, and stares at the letters in his lap. “I got to visit, once. Before we- before I left. Special lesson. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone else know.”

“What was down there?” Jester’s voice warbles a little in the middle, and so he tries to make his own voice a little more reassuring. Force of habit.

“Nothing so interesting. A teleportation sigil, a few research laboratories, a training room with lead-lined walls.”

“Lead walls? Why?” Fjord asks.

“I don’t know. It’s not… I’m sure it’s nothing good, but I don’t think that it’s relevant to the task at hand.” He runs an anxious hand through his hair. It comes away damp. “I heard… noises. From deeper within, beyond where Ikithon took me.” He can see Nott shrinking back, like distance might guard her from the implications of his words. “Screams, maybe.” _I didn’t ask,_ he thinks. _I was happy to have his attention, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know._ “It was too far off to tell.”

“And do you know how to get back into these chambers?”

Caleb can see the plan crystalizing behind Fjord’s eyes. It was always straightforward with Fjord: one step and then the next, and no regard for the impossibility of it all.

“Yes,” Caleb says, “but it’s a fool’s errand to try. The entrance we took was through the Headmaster’s office.”

“So? We break in, Nott sneaks her way into the office and unlocks the door for us, we get Yeza out and run like hell. It’s a school, not a military complex.”

“It is a school for _magic_. I don’t know what you’ve heard about the Soltryce Academy, but it is not simply a place for wealthy parents to hand off their spoiled children. It is a facility meant for one purpose: to breed war mages. You cannot… you cannot imagine the wards that would be placed on this door, if we even managed to reach it. Which is an even bigger _if_.”

“So what?” growls Fjord. “We just give up?”

_Yes!_ the coward inside him screams. “We are as good as dead if we attempt this.” Fjord’s eyes flash yellow and it takes all of Caleb’s willpower to keep his voice calm in the wake of Fjord’s rising frustration. He can feel that control slipping.

“Caleb, I know you’re afraid to go back there-” Beau is between him and Fjord now, cutting off their steel-eyed stares with her body.

“Beau, that is not- I’m not saying this because I’m frightened-” He is, but it’s important they understand that _they should be too_ -

“Alright, concerned then-” It’s like the forest all over again, Beau is listening but not _hearing_ -

“No, that’s not it at-”

“But there’s _seven_ of us, Caleb. We’ll figure something out, between us. You’ve got to trust-”

“You are not _hearing_ me! If we go in there as we are, we will _die!_ ”

“I don’t care.”

Nott’s small voice knocks the wind out of Beau’s next retort, and when did she get so close? When did her hands find his?

“Caleb,” she says, and her eyes are round and frightened and _fierce_. “You know I want to protect you. You know how important you are to me. How important everyone is.”

All he can do is nod. His heart is still hammering in his chest. He can feel hers beating just as fast through the wrappings around her wrists.

“I don’t want to die. But I will do anything, _anything_ , if it means my son gets his father back.”

The world narrows down to this single point: her heart beating, and his fear, and the danger around them, and the only friends he’s had in so, so long. A single, quiet moment of understanding.

“… _Ja_. Okay. Okay.”

And maybe… just maybe… Beau could be right. Maybe it really will all be okay, in the end. A tiny part of him fractures open as he stares at the people sitting around him, sees how many hands are waiting to reach out.

_Believe in us, just a little_.

For the smallest of moments, he thinks he does.  

***

This is all very new to Caduceus, what a city entails.

The others talk of schools, of halls of government and patrols and wartime rituals while they make their plans and he listens with half-lidded eyes, letting their words wash over him in a soothing litany of meaningless chatter. They talk as though these things are universally known and understood, and do not notice that he’s lost the thread of conversation an hour ago. That’s fine. He’s quite happy to observe.

Caleb reminds him, as they leave the inn and set out into the burgeoning twilight, that he should disguise his appearance. He asks why, even as his head shimmers down onto narrower, more inconspicuous shoulders. His firbolg features caused no issues in Zadash?

“This is a very different place than Zadash,” Caleb says darkly.

Oh? Is it? It’s only the third city he’s been to, but they seem quite similar in all aspects that matter – noise, crowds, an absence of the natural and green. Still, Mr. Caleb and the others know more of these places than him. He’s content to defer to their judgement.

They pass by moonlight towards the northern edge of the city, following wide streets around merchants packing up their carts and smoke drifting from high windows. The air is warm here. Unseasonably warm for the time of night and the time of year, and the northern side of the city seems warmer still than the southern edge. An interesting detail. Caduceus tucks it away for further ponderance.

Nott leads the charge, her shoulders twitching in anticipation of each unfamiliar footfall as they hurry along. She’s disguised herself too. Her bright green eyes peek out from a mess of black curls, twisted like brambles around her gnomish face. Caduceus wonders why she didn’t choose a halfling appearance. From what he understood of their conversation in Felderwin, the transformation from her original race to goblinoid troubles her greatly, and she wishes to return to that form if she can.

Perhaps he’ll ask her, when they have a moment alone. It’s important to tend to the creatures who share your world. Sadness caries down into the bones, and flowers grown over a suffering soul bloom bitter and dry. He means to tend this garden of friends for as long as he’s with them, and leave the world a sweeter place for it.

The Soltryce Academy is difficult to miss, once Caduceus is informed that’s what he’s looking at. A magnificent, two-tiered building stands at the end of a wide cobblestone walkway. Its mouth is guarded by carefully tended hedges and the protection of an elegant fence of whitewashed rails that rises fifteen feet towards the sky, curving in a gentle bow around the perimeter. Another wall, this one of fitted stone, encloses everything else beyond the path and curves in the same arc as the fence. It blocks the rest of the campus from sight, but from a vantage of seven feet he can make out the domes and spires of what must be a collection of smaller buildings just beyond the larger one.

As far as he can tell, the walls of the Academy stretch all the way to meet Rexxentrum’s outer walls, cordoning off a rounded ovule of space wide enough to house his family’s entire graveyard with room to spare. It seems excessive, truthfully, for a school that supposedly admits so few. But again, this is all very new to Caduceus.

They don’t get close enough to make out any more details of the building beyond the fence. Instead, Caleb pulls them towards a series of alleyways between nearby dwellings, and they begin to creep along. Frumpkin takes to the rooftops and Caleb’s eyes go blank as Beau slings her arm under his. The rest of them follow their lead, getting a general sense of the area and trusting Caleb’s muttering to supply the larger details.

They’re being careful, but they’re also trying to be quick and gather as much as they can about potential sewer openings or weaknesses in the wall before dawn breaks, and Caduceus is very absorbed in the new sights and smells of the nocturnal city, which is perhaps why nobody notices the cloaked figures creeping in the shadows before it’s too late.

The first dagger comes for Beau, whirling out of the darkness like a child’s pinwheel. She shrieks as it embeds in the meat of her unprotected shoulder, and Caleb startles out of his trance when she drops him to the ground and spins to search for the unknown assailant.

The next dagger strikes Fjord across the cheek and yes, now Caduceus sees them. A cluster of figures in dark hoods darting in and out from the intersection of alleyways, their movement like twinkling fireflies, there and then gone. His eyes track one as it darts past Yasha’s raised sword and plunges a knife into where Caduceus’s ribs would be, were he as human as his appearance. Instead, the blade finds the top of his thigh, and he manages to catch a glint of confused blue eyes before the figure dashes on past, rounding with a second group of attackers at their rear.

Fjord sounds the retreat almost as soon as the battle’s begun and Caduceus agrees with the assessment. It’s a remarkable show of prudence from the usually impulsive half-orc, but ultimately futile. The figures block off their escape at every turn. Yasha and Fjord’s blades cleave through thin air as often as flesh as they swing uselessly at the vanguard. Jester, for all her cleverness, has just as little success, and he hears her curses grow more desperate with each spell that fizzles on her fingertips as it loses its mark. Caleb can’t work his fire in such a confined space without the risk of setting the thatched roofs alight, and so he’s consigned to pressing his back to the wall and firing volley after volley of magic missiles, of which only one in three seems to reach a target. Nott and Beau both make for the high ground, but each time their hands catch the rafters to swing up a dagger spins from the darkness and knocks their grips askew, sending them tumbling back to the dirt.

Occasionally they hear a yelp and thud from the opposing side, so their efforts aren’t entirely unrewarded, but it’s such a rare thing that it feels almost inconsequential in the grand scheme of the swiftly deteriorating fight.

It’s when Jester slumps to the ground, choking on her own bloody spit, that Caduceus is forced to acknowledge they’ve found themselves in a very bad situation. He slams his staff to the ground and she revives with a ragged gasp, but then Fjord falls to her left, and he can’t keep up with the injuries that they’re sustaining. And still the attackers keep coming, moving in synchronized formation too practiced to be the employ of common cutthroats.

For all things there is a time to die, but he doesn’t believe today is the day the goddess meant for him. There’s still too much to explore, too much to know, too many things to protect.

“To me,” he shouts, and raises his staff towards the sky as the rest of the Mighty Nein staggers in his direction. A beam of moonlight pierces the crystal and a shower of bubbles blossom from the tip, floating out to form shields of flickering guardians at either end of the alley. For a moment, the onslaught halts, and they’re left panting and staring at the figures, who seem to be deciding whether the threshold is something they dare cross. But before they can make up their minds, another flash of light bursts into the alley.

Caduceus turns again to see four cloaked bodies lying at the feet of a woman, her slender frame clad in long robes of amethyst purple. Arcs of white lightning entwine with her fingertips as she lowers her hand. From behind her, a taller man steps out, brushing aside the fey guardians with nary a flinch even as they claw at his aged, disease-marked face. He raises his arm, and at his back Caduceus hears Caleb’s breath leave his body in one choked gasp.

The figures at the other end of the alley scatter, but that’s less relevant to Caduceus than the fact that Caleb is inching along the wall, eyes fixed on the strange man and mouthing the same words over and over in a broken, desperate whisper.

“Puff of smoke. Puff of smoke, puff of smoke-”

“Caleb…” Nott says, her lower lip trembling as her eyes dart between the approaching man and Caleb’s shrinking form. “Caleb, I-”

“Now, Nott!” he cries, and throws up a wall of flame as high as Caduceus is tall between them and their rescuers.

Nott shrieks in frustration and jumps up to tear the pink haversack from Jester’s shoulder. Caleb pulls something from around his neck and tosses it to her and just as she catches it the haversack and her whole body wink out of existence. Caduceus doesn’t see but feels her claws scrabbling on his shoulder for purchase as she boosts herself up onto the rooftop, and then her footsteps disappear entirely into the soft thatch, and then she’s gone.

The man steps through the wall of fire unsinged. He stares at their huddled forms with an almost indifferent air, like he’s not sure what to make of their display but isn’t certain it’s worth his time to find out. His icy gaze passes over all of them in turn, alighting for a longer moment on Yasha’s face with a look of idle surprise, but continues on, searching for the source of the final spell.

Caleb’s fingers are still smoking, and the second their eyes meet Caduceus feels something electric pass between them. For the briefest of moments, the stranger’s cold expression slips into wide-eyed, disbelieving recognition. His deep voice crackles like tinder to the flame, raw and unguarded, and he breathes a single word.

“Bren.”

And then Caduceus feels his brain fill with gentle, comforting fog, and his eyes drift closed to the sound of five other bodies crumpling to the ground.


	2. Authority

Beau’s head hurts.

It’s far from a new sensation, her head aching. She’s survived enough sparring matches against Dairon to get comfortable with her brain feeling like mashed jelly inside her skull, and spent enough nights forced to sit up parsing scrolls under dim tallow light to know intimately what a tension headache tastes of. (Inadequacy, mostly.) This is a different kind of hurt. Something constant but pulsing, burning in her forehead, like a slow drip of poison trickling through her sinuses.

Beau groans and rolls over, presses her face into the pillow. It’s almost like a hangover, but without the nausea. Weird.

Someone’s knocking at the door. Fuck. Is she late to training again?

She shoves her cheek deeper into the soft _(soft?)_ fabric and waits to see if the knocker will go away – that strategy has worked for her about one time out of never, but she’s not throwing in the towel yet.

An unfamiliar voice calls through the door, “The Headmistress will see you shortly. Be dressed and ready in five minutes.”  

Well, that’s bizarrely polite for a hall monitor. Usually, they’d be screeching at her to get her lazy ass out of bed and clean herself up before she ruined the wing’s spotless inspection rating.

But wait. Wasn’t she training at the Cobalt Soul now?

Or wait, wasn’t she travelling with the Mighty Nein?

Hadn’t she left that school ages ago?

Shit. How hard did she hit her head?

“Beau, wake up.” Jester’s accent filters in past the pain and she finally forces her eyes to open and for a moment, she really is convinced she’s been transported back in time to Miss Malgren’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. Everything about their surroundings screams ‘fancy dormitory’, from the pair of writing desks along the far wall and the non-descript beige paint job down to the four single beds with finely woven blue covers against the two opposing sides. Only instead of snooty countesses-in-training with curlers fastened in their hair, she’s met with the sight of three familiar, utterly incongruous faces. She has to blink her eyes to piece together the scenario. The contrast between the room and its newfound occupants is throwing her already-scrambled brain for all sorts of loops.

Across from Beau, Caduceus seems almost comically large in his perch on one of the mattresses; his crossed legs bow out over the edges of a frame made for creatures a foot shorter, and his shaggy head rests barely an inch below a wall sconce that flickers with unnatural yellow light. Fjord paces a line of heavy steps up and down the narrow space between the beds, running his hand over his jaw and glancing every so often at the door like it will give him an answer to his restlessness. Meanwhile Jester, the only one of the group who could have possibly passed for a fine lady under different circumstances, crouches by Beau’s bed with her hair in disarrayed waves and her fingernails dirtier than any monitor would have tolerated, staring at Beau with a mixture of apprehension and relief.

“I’m glad you’re awake! You were asleep for super long. Fjord was worried you wouldn’t wake up, but I wasn’t, I knew you would,” Jester says, eyes open and honest even as her weakly held smile betrays her fib, and Beau feels an unexpected jolt of emotion at the disparity between Jester’s concern and her own sense of unease. How many times had she awoken in the last dorm room she shared and watched everyone rush to leave before her ill-breeding could rub off on them? She’s never woken up to someone crouched by her bedside, offering a hand.

Before she can think better of it, she tumbles forward and wraps Jester in a tight hug. “Where the fuck are we?” Beau mumbles into her shoulder. She thinks she knows the answer already. She recognized the look in Caleb’s eyes last night, before everything went fuzzy and tilted. The wounded stare of the fox watching the hunter take aim…

Ah, there’s the nausea she’s been waiting for.

“Judging by the greeting we just got,” Fjord supplies from the centre of the room, “I’d say it’s a fair bet we’re somewhere in the Soltryce Academy.”

Beau lets Jester go reluctantly and swings her legs over the side of the bed. “Think those mages we saw were coming from there?”

“Looks that way,” Fjord agrees. The mages. Beau’s head pulses again. Goddamnit. That was Trent Ikithon. Trent fucking Ikithon, in the creepy rotted flesh, and they hadn’t even managed a day in the city before falling right into his lap. She almost has to laugh at the horrible irony.

_Guess what, Caleb? You were totally right, and I’m an asshole. Bet you’re real happy now._

Caleb’s not here to gloat, because of course he’s not. Because this situation couldn’t get any worse, because of course Trent ran off with him the first moment he could, because that’s exactly what Caleb said would happen. And they dragged him back here anyway. She told him not to run, that it was them against the world, and like always the world smacked her right upside the head for daring to think she knew shit about the right thing to do.

Yasha’s absence is just as conspicuous. Beau’s not sure what that sick fuck wanted with her back in Zadash but she really doesn’t want to find out, doesn’t think she can stomach it. Doesn’t know who she feels more worried for in the moment.

“Well, at least we didn’t wake up already seasoned and skewered. That’s something,” she deadpans, rubbing her temples. _See, Caleb? You got one thing wrong. Hah._ The bile rises in her throat and she swallows it back down. Gods, her head hurts.  

“What do you know about this Headmistress?” Fjord asks.

“Don’t look at me, I’m no prodigy. I know about as much about the Academy as you.” But even as she says it, she knows it’s not true. All those lessons about the Cerberus Assembly and its relationship to the Soltryce Academy that she tried her best to sleep through are still lurking in her memory. It just takes some effort to siphon them off into anything useful. “Uh… I think there used to be a Headmaster, but he got himself removed about five years ago? Cobalt Soul wasn’t too happy about it, he was supposedly pretty level-headed, as far as mages go.”

She almost follows that up with _no offense_ , but there’s no Caleb here to shoot her a withering glare and she definitely, definitely needs to get out of this room before she loses the rest of her sanity and starts talking to ghosts of people who aren’t actually dead.

(Because Caleb isn’t dead.)

(Because if Caleb’s dead, he was right about everything, and Beau just can’t accept that.)

(-fuck, please don’t be-)

Beau boosts herself up and marches to the door. The handle doesn’t turn, even after repeated slams of her shoulder against the wood.

“Don’t bother,” Jester calls, “I already tried. I think it’s magically locked.”

“Doesn’t someone have a spell that negates that?”

“Caleb did,” Caduceus supplies from the bed.

Right. Of course he did.

She’s just about to give a roundhouse kick a try, just for the hell of it, when there’s a subtle _click_ and the door swings open. Beau’s left standing there, muscles taut and geared for action, as she finds herself staring dumbly at the figure on the other side. She’s a human girl – maybe sixteen at the oldest, with chestnut hair tied into two wispy plaits at her back. She glances at Beau’s clenched fists and takes half a step back, nervously peering past to see if any of the other occupants are similarly readying an attack. Jester looks confused, but gives her a tentative wave, and Beau reluctantly lowers her guard.

“Good morning,” the girl says, and gives a brief bow. She hasn’t stepped back closer to Beau. “I’m to take you to the Headmistress.” She clasps her hands tightly in front of her simple grey robes, but the girl’s posture remains straight, regal even. She’d have done very well at Miss Malgren’s, Beau thinks. Unbidden, she thinks too of how she could never get her braids that neat or her clothes that well pressed, even back when she bothered to try. Like it made any difference. Like there’s any point in thinking on it now.

Beau peers out past the girl into the corridor. No hint of armed guards or any other sort of barrier to them just knocking their guide out and taking off. Either their hosts are monumentally stupid, or there’s something else going on behind the scenes. She’s not willing to bet on the former.

“Lead on,” she grunts, because they’re not getting anything else out of being stuck in this room.

The four of them follow the girl out into the corridor (simple, unadorned plaster lit with iron sconces every ten feet or so, three doors at either side in even intervals, no other foot traffic) and around a corner into a brighter hallway (two stained glass windows with thick panes of orange and blue and violet, four feet up, this must be an outer wall) and down another, and another, until Beau’s completely lost her sense of direction.

“Are you a student here?” Fjord asks as they walk, all pleasant smiles as he ambles up to keep pace alongside the girl. From the rear, Beau can’t help but notice a faint blush start to dust along the skin between her collar and hairline as he asks for her name (Alena) and what she’s studying (evocation, for the moment) and how long she’s been here (two years plus a season) and Beau sometimes forgets that Fjord’s got charm to spare when he’s on his game. Probably not enough to get them out of this, but still.

There’s a staircase up, then down. More people are around now – adults of varying races strolling sedately down sunlight-lit corridors overlooking a courtyard, children ranging in age from five to late teens with the same deep grey robes as Alena, who clutch books or scarves or their friends’ hands as they hurry past. A few groups of the younger children turn and stare at the strangers in their midst, but most of the older ones ignore them, rushing off to parts unknown further within the Academy. The uniformity of their dress makes Beau’s skin crawl as much as the influx of eyes, and she falls into step by Fjord as Caduceus asks Alena something innocuous about the trees in the courtyard.

“Do we make a break for it?” Beau whispers, low enough to be safe from listening ears.

Fjord shrugs. “Maybe, if there’s a chance…”

Jester chimes in, “We can’t leave. We still don’t know where Caleb and Yasha are.”

Which means they’re committed to sticking whatever this is out until they get more information, even though for all Beau can tell there’s nothing stopping them from simply walking out the front door.

This shit was easier when it was just Beau on her own – rogue agent and hard-off criminal, making her own way, fighting her own battles, beholden to nothing and nobody. It made the decisions simple when there was only one person to care about. Now everything’s complicated and it’s terrifying to know there are threads anchoring her to this place that she can’t cut.

Nott took the haversack and ran without looking back, and now that it comes to it, Beau isn’t sure she’d have had the courage to do the same.  

“Nearly there!” Alena calls as she leads them out of the bright bustling corridor and into another windowless hallway. Beau keeps the parallel to the courtyard in her head, hoping to at least stay oriented as they move, but every time she tries to add another stroke to her mental map the pain in her head flashes again and she’s lost her way. They might have turned twenty corners or two for all she remembers, or maybe they’re going in circles, or maybe she’s never seen this hallway before in her life.

Gods, she hates to admit it, but she misses Caleb and his maddening inner compass.

(Gods, what’s Ikithon going to do to him?)

They’re standing in front of a giant set of oaken doors, inlaid with a relief of the planar system in delicate rose gold strokes. Beau glances at Fjord’s hand to see if his fingers are twitching towards the inscription, but all she sees are white knuckles. Not even Jester seems interested in the design. In fact, this is probably the longest she’s ever heard Jester be silent. Not that surprising. With the finality of the door in front of them, it really does feel like they’re being marched towards an execution. Nobody wants their last words to be a comment on the décor.

The doors swing open, revealing a set of low steps up to a wide ovular dais. They have one last moment to consider. Fight, flee, follow. On her own, Beau might have made the more foolish choice. As it is, she shadows Alena up the steps, and the rest follow her lead. They crest the top and a large mahogany desk slips into view, behind which sits a woman with vaguely elven features. She rises as they approach.

The woman isn’t dressed in the same cut of robes as the rest of the Academy’s inhabitants. If anything, she’s garbed more like a stabler’s assistant than the head of a premiere magical institute. Her silver hair flows down in waves onto the shoulders of a loose black linen shirt, tucked into high-waisted trousers that cling to her skin like a film to a glass and disappear into her cherry-stained leather boots.

Still, the deep lines around her eyes and rigid set of her brow exude a calm authority that belies the casualness of her dress. It immediately sets Beau’s hackles rising.

“Welcome,” she says in a voice that’s friendly in the detached way Beau’s come to associate with diplomats, “to the Soltryce Academy. I’m Headmistress Lirene Tross.” She steps around the edge of the desk and flicks her finger at Alena, who bows again and makes her exit. The door shuts at her back. Nobody else takes her place.

Beau’s body vibrates with the memory of Caleb’s words. _The entrance we took was through the Headmaster’s office_. There’s only this Headmistress Tross, this half-elven woman half a head shorter than Beau, and four of them, and a chance to get Yeza out _now_.

And a chance to raise an alarm that ensures Yasha and Caleb’s speedy deaths, if they haven’t already been administered.

Beau shoves her hands in her pockets and breathes through her nostrils, and focuses on the pain in her head and not the fury mounting below her skin. This is the price of having friends at your back. No fear, but no stupid moves. It’s not only her skin on the line this time.

“Now,” Tross says as she leans back against the desk and crosses one leg in front of the other, “I hear that Masters Ikithon and Mirel rescued you from a nasty scrape with the Sewn Teeth.”

There’s something about the name that rings a bell in Beau’s memory. A warning whispered in her ear, _don’t stray too far towards Rexxentrum, the Teeth will take your hand if you’re not discrete_ and she’d assumed it was some clumsy metaphor meant to scare a greenhorn into staying out of a more established guild’s territory, but she’d given her little smuggling runs a wide berth around the capital nonetheless, told herself it was because her hinterland fences were more reliable and not because she was scared of getting in over her head.

“It’s not generally wise to wander back alleys at night, especially not in such… intriguing apparel.” She inclines her head towards Caduceus’s glittering armour. “But I gather from your lack of caution you must not be from the city?”

Beau glances at Fjord, who stares back with the same nonplussed expression. Jester looks like she’s biting her tongue, debating what to say, and Caduceus seems content to let someone else carry the conversation.

She really, really didn’t want to end up the face of the group, but needs must. Besides, if anyone’s going to lie their way through Empire-related bullshit, it’s got to be her.

“We’re from here and there,” Beau says, choosing her words carefully. “We’ve been out in the field a while. Didn’t know the capital had developed a rat problem.”

At this, Tross lets out a small chuckle, and Beau doesn’t let herself believe the casual slant of her shoulders is anything but a ploy. “A recent development, to be sure. War breeds all sorts of violence, as I’m sure _you_ know well.” Her eyes flick down to the blue sash around her waist and she gives Beau a knowing look. “It seems one of your companions was known to Master Ikithon. An old acquaintance, as it were.” Beau can’t break the staring contest to glance back at Jester but she begs whatever corner of the cosmos will listen that she’ll steel her expression, that she won’t give them away.

“Really?” Beau says with all the indifference she can muster. “That’s an interesting coincidence.”

“Indeed, but I won’t question fate’s hand when it comes to happy reunions. The world is not so wide as it seems, and I’ve seen unlikelier things in my time. I’m far _more_ curious what a monk of the Cobalt Soul is doing in such company as a former Soltryce student, a Xhorhasian, and… well, whoever these folk may turn out to be.”

“Oh, I’m Jester! Pleased to meet you,” Jester chirps, and a blue hand extends past Beau’s shoulder. It’s only by virtue of Beau having known her so long that she can hear the slight quaver of nerves behind her bright greeting.

“Charmed,” Tross says with a hint of a smile, and gives Jester a firm handshake.

“Caduceus,” Caduceus provides just as warmly, and Fjord follows suit after a long moment. Well, no point in dishonesty then.

“Beauregard. And what I’m doing with these people is, frankly, none of the Soltryce Academy’s concern.”

It’s a gamble, she knows it, but it immediately gets Tross’s curious glance off of Jester’s expressive face and that’s the most important thing.

Any pleasant affectation Tross was putting on freezes by a degree as she turns back to Beau. “Oh?” she says.

“Yup. Cobalt Soul business, strictly outside the interest of the Assembly. Now, I am _very_ sorry if our tussle with the Teeth was an inconvenience for… what did you say their names were? Ikithon? Mirna?”

“Mirel,” Tross corrects, and she’s still smiling but a little muscle ticks in her jaw. Beau smirks. Still got it.

“Right,” Beau responds lightly. “Well, I promise my hired companions and I won’t be taking the back streets again anytime soon, but we really must be on our way. If you’d be so kind as to direct me where I can pick up the last two members of my party?”

Tross bares her teeth, dropping the smile entirely in favour of a cold smirk, and Beau feels reckless, and elated, and older than her years as she holds the challenge and doesn’t give an inch of ground. This is what she’s made for.

“I’m afraid you’ve been out in the wild for a very long time, Beauregard, or have you forgotten that we are at war? Your business may be your own, but the Cobalt Soul does not have the latitude to override the rite of conscription. You may have hired these companions, but the Empire has need of their skills in this present moment. Considering the Soul would have lost a valuable member last night were it not for our intervention, I’d say we’re owed at least a gesture of good faith in return.”

Beau narrows her eyes. “The Cobalt Soul-”

“Has every right to contest this evaluation, should they see fit, but for the moment the rite supersedes their authority. From what I understand, your companions here demonstrated a variety of fascinating potentials last night, despite the lackluster end result. With training, I’m sure they’ll all prove as diligent as Master Ikithon believes his old friend will be.”

Beau doesn’t even have time to process the spark of relief at the confirmation that Caleb is, at least, alive, before Tross continues. “And as for the Xhorhasian, well, I don’t know where you found her, but I’m surprised she hasn’t been picked up before now. If she’s as loyal to the Empire as you all are-” and her pleasant smile returns, sickly sweet and placating, and Beau is reminded why she never got along with any of her teachers, “then her information may prove invaluable to the war effort. Surely the Cobalt Soul couldn’t begrudge the Assembly that.”

“Now, let’s all wait just a minute-” Fjord starts behind her but Beau throws up her hand. She puts the entire force of her frustration into her red-eyed glare.

“You really think the Cobalt Soul will just be fine with you holding one of its operatives? You really think-”

“Oh, well, of course _you’re_ free to go,” Tross says, flicking her hand dismissively. “In fact…” She snaps her fingers and two men in burgundy robes step through the door. “Please escort young Beauregard out. She has pressing business to attend to in the city.”

The mages step forward and Beau’s hand goes to her staff, and then a cool wave of energy washes through her body. “I suggest it’s time you take your leave.” She knows the phrasing, tastes the honeycomb wet on Caleb’s lip and sees Nott’s sputtering form as she emerges into a dark cavern with Sprinkle clutched to her chest. Beau braces herself. The ache in her head is unbearable, and she holds onto the pain and wraps it around her like a helmet of thorns. After a moment, the tendrils of magic shrivel and subside and the spell fades, unable to take root.

Beau tightens her grip on the staff. The choice has been made for her. Fight. She’s ready for it. She’s always ready for it.

But then she looks at Jester. Jester, who is always keeping them together, who binds their party even when everything else is falling apart, and her lips are moving. _Go._ Wordlessly, she implores again. _Go_. And Beau could scream, will scream when she gets the chance, but Jester’s soft, sad smile begs her to be patient and she knows, she knows that if she swings her staff now that she won’t be leaving this room alive. And then what good is she?

“Ok,” Beau rasps out, not turning her eyes away from Jester’s. “Fine. I’m going.”

She does. She follows the two mages out into more unfamiliar hallways and then into the throngs of students, past the courtyard and down steps and through a small side entrance and now she’s on cobblestones, and the sun is bright overhead, and the breeze is warm, and the gilded fence is at her back, and the whole city of Rexxentrum is ahead of her, and she’s alone in the middle of the street with only the barest recollection of how she got there.

Free.

She walks forward another block. Nobody calls out to her to stop, so she walks another.  

 _Oh,_ Beau thinks vaguely. _The headache’s gone_.

She makes it about four blocks before she realizes she’s crying.


	3. Control

Fjord keeps his eyes on the blue of Beau’s vestments for as long as he can as the heavy doors swing shut, locking the dwindling remains of the Nein inside the office. He’s become so accustomed to having her at his right hand that it’s strange to remember there was a time it was just him and Jester, and before that… Well, he regrets that she’s gone, but it’s one less person they have to worry about, so even though he’d rather have her strength with them he can reluctantly admit it’s the best decision.

Fjord hears Caduceus shift beside him and when he looks, he’s got one giant hand on Jester’s shoulder, steadying her as she regains her bright expression in the wake of Beau’s exit. He’s been seeing that mask crack more and more these days.

“Now that that’s done,” Tross continues, glancing at each of them in turn, “to more interesting business.” A little of her earlier friendly demeanor returns, her posture a little less tense, and Fjord wills his own muscles to relax. They’re just in a school, not an interrogation chamber or a prison. Beau set up their cover story well, and Yasha and Caleb are somewhere alive. All they have to do is play along until an opportunity presents itself to shift the situation. Honestly, they’ve been in worse scrapes before. It’s too soon to be panicking yet.

Tross reaches down and pulls a sheet of paper off her desk and runs her finger down the side, like she’s reading off a checklist. Fjord gets the sense that she’s probably got every word on the page memorized, that she’s trying to give the atmosphere a moment to settle. Vandren used to do the same – order the deck swabbed before the debrief from a hard-weathered storm and you’re less likely to have crewmen tearing into their peers’ mistakes. He can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the chance to breathe and recenter. With Beau out of the picture, he’s back to being the negotiator of the group. It’s not something he relishes, but he’s not as nervous of it as he once was.

“Mirel’s report tells me there was quite an array of magic on show from each of you last night. It would help me to know your specialties and interests, so I can expedite your placement.”

 _Placement?_ It takes Fjord a second to cotton onto her meaning. ”You’ll forgive my confusion, but aren’t we a little, uh, _old_ to be starting classes?” In hindsight, he feels a little foolish about his earlier intentions to study at the Academy. He tries to picture himself hunched over a desk, two heads above the throngs of eight-year-olds they’d passed in the halls. The image is laughable. “And, not to intrude again on the Assembly’s authority,” whose exact nature he still has only the haziest conception of from Beau and Caleb’s comments but he’ll go with it, “but I really feel our skills are better spent serving the Empire outside of a school.”

“The Soltryce Academy doesn’t only host younger students, though that is its primary purpose. We also support a number of older scholars who attend private lessons, or contribute to our faculty’s research efforts. You’ll find yourself in equal company here, I assure you. As to your other objection, I may end up agreeing. Still, it will be easiest to determine where best your skills might serve once I have a better sense of what those are.”

Fjord worries his teeth with his tongue, trying to think of a lie that would hold up to moderate scrutiny. The longer he refuses to answer, the less credence his words will hold. They’ve all learned that lesson well enough. Thankfully, Jester pipes up and covers his hesitation.

“Well, I’m the – _a_ cleric,” she corrects. “That’s um, that’s basically it. Divine power, _blahhh_ ,” Jester says, thrusting her hand forward and screwing up her face as she mimes unleashing a burst of energy from her palm. “Most of the time, anyway, I’m also sort of a detective, so if you ever need a mystery solved, Jester and- Jester’s on the case!” She twirls her fingers in a little flourish.

Fjord spots a twitch in the corner of Tross’s mouth that might be amusement at Jester’s antics, or something else – she’s hard to read. Still, her little smile remains encouraging. “I’ll keep that in mind. And which of the pantheon do you serve?”

“Uh…” Jester sputters, spinning her still-outstretched hand in a quick circle, “the- the Platinum Dragon, of course!” Her other hand makes an aborted motion towards the shoulder where the haversack would usually sit, but it closes on open air.

Ah, yes. The bag that Nott has. The bag that had Molly’s tapestry, their only ‘proof’ of Jester’s alibi. Peachy.

“That does well. A number of Bahamut’s acolytes maintain a temple here on the grounds. So many healers have left for Bladegarden in the last few weeks, I’m sure they’ll be happy for a fresh face. You’ll be a welcome addition.”

“Right! Great! That Bahamut, so excited to get to worship them even more. My favourite thing to do…” Jester trails off in an ever-increasing pitch, and Tross quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

She looks down at her paper again as she turns from Jester. “And you, firb- Caduceus, was it?” She catches her slip just in time and restores her polite tone. Caduceus doesn’t seem offended. Then again, he never does get offended about much of anything. Stone cold smiler, that one. Fjord used to find it eerie, but it’s proven to be a boon more than once. Fjord’s borne enough insults slung at his own tusks and hue to know there’s worse than casual dehumanization laying in Caduceus’s path if they stay in the cities.

“I do have magic, yes,” Caduceus answers calmly. “I’m not sure what kind you would call it.” Fjord is profoundly grateful that their most recent trip through the border came with a built-in reminder to Caduceus about the Wildmother’s illegal status.

Another twitch, and this time Fjord is more certain of the expression. It’s not amusement, it’s well-veiled impatience. “A shaman then?” she asks, with an almost perfunctory interest. “I’ve heard tribes of your people had individuals of that sort. Those who speak to animals and trees?”

Caduceus inclines his head. “That word works as well as any.”

“Well,” she says, glancing back down at the sheet, “I confess I don’t know much of firbolg magic – it’s a curiousity the Halls of Erudition are more inclined towards – but perhaps Master Elgon would know something more of the matter. I’ll be sure to send word to him to expect you tomorrow.” Her eyes have already passed on to Fjord before she finishes the sentence.

When her dark gaze meets his, he can’t help but swallow. He’s flung back towards another place and time, another woman leaning against another desk. Tross stares with waning anticipation, and he sees the same pulse of hunger there as he did from Avantika. She wants something from him, something he’s not sure he can provide.

Then again, he rose to the challenge last time, didn’t he? That thought alone sends his mind skittering to places it shouldn’t go, and he catches himself before his eyes can dart down to the top button of her blouse, to see how far the black linen dips.

_Control._

“Fjord, was it?”

He clears his throat. “Ye-yup. That’s me.”

“Mirel’s comments on _you_ are most interesting. Tell me, what fuels the power you wield? Have you trained, or is it something of the blood or divine?”

(Vandren’s voice, warm over the scrape of a knife against leather, and Fjord holding the other end of the strip, hanging on to the man’s every word: _Tell them what they want to hear most, and you will never choose your words wrong.)_

“Honestly, I’m not really sure where my power comes from. It’s just always been there.” Lies, but with enough shades of truth to be convincing if pressed. Tross’s eyes flash, and he knows he’s got her attention. “But the things I can do – the powers I have – they’ve been getting stronger as of late.”

It feels decadent, to do this dance from the other side. His fingers tingle as he watches her tamper down the excitement to a more demure expression. Was this what Avantika felt, when she first mentioned Uk’otoa and saw the recognition in his eyes? Like he’s the bait and the fisherman all at once, the angler light over the gaping maw, ready with sharpened teeth.

“Ah! A sorcerer’s gift. This we can work with. What do you know of your lineage?”

“Not much. Grew up an orphan,” he clarifies, because sharing a little of yourself breeds trust, and so much the better if it’s the truth you’re sharing. “Not really sure what my parents were, if they were anything.”

“How intriguing,” and this time the sentiment is mirrored by the eagerness in her eyes. “Though not unheard of. We have a few children here that were plucked from Zadash’s Apple Tree who share a similar story. Luckily, there are some methods available to determine the origin of your abilities. Though,” she continues, “should it prove to be something more singular than say, draconic blood, all the better. We here at the Academy pride ourselves on gathering all those with the most unique skillsets. I promise you, you’ll find no better place to learn.”

“I don’t doubt it, Headmistress,” he says, and tilts his head in a small nod. “I think that sounds like a fine deal.” He can feel Jester’s confused stare boring into the back of his skull, and even Caduceus is looking at him more directly than usual. He smiles in their direction. “Isn’t that right, Jester? Caduceus? We’re all eager to learn.”

“Yeah, of course, Fjord.” Jester says slowly. “Super excited.” Her veneer is chipping again. He widens his smile to compensate. Collectively, they’ve got this under control. _He’s_ got this under control.

“Right,” he says, turning back to Tross. “When do we get started?”

\---

The dining hall glimmers in shades of the same white stone as the rest of the Academy, its floors lit with the mid-afternoon sun as the light bounces from tile to tile. Scattered groups of students pour over books and trace the outlines of spells in rough strokes, heavy in concentration. Only a few still pick at half-eaten lunches, long gone cold.

Their new guide – a boy this time, older than Alena and Fjord doesn’t bother to learn his name now he knows they likely won’t see him again – leaves through a back door and returns with plates for each of them before disappearing into the corner. It’s typical communal fare: boiled vegetables, potato halves, and a scant portion of some unidentifiable meat in sauce. Caduceus pushes his serving of meat onto Jester’s plate and she thanks him, but Fjord grabs her hand before she can spear the first chunk towards her mouth.

“Can we trust the food?” he whispers. They aren’t close enough to any other tables to be overheard, but he glances over his shoulder anyway. Nobody’s watching that he can see.

Caduceus picks up a floppy carrot and inspects it. “I could ward us against poison, if you think it would help. But I suspect if they wanted to do away with us, there are more direct routes.” He can’t argue with that logic. “To be honest, I’d rather wait to use any of my spells until it becomes strictly necessary.”

Jester nods. “The Headmistress seemed really interested in us,” _me_ , “and our magic. Maybe we don’t want to help them figure us out just yet.” Her grip uncurls beneath his, fingers pushing into the spaces between knuckles until they’re locked in the facsimile of holding hands, and he doesn’t miss how she says _us_ but she’s only looking at him.

“I don’t know how much value there is in trying to hide, Jester. We’re not going to fight our way out of this situation. And the more we cooperate, the more likely it is they’ll buy our story. Caleb and Yasha’s lives might just depend on that.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment before slipping her fingers from his and grabbing the fork again. “Yeah, that’s true.” One quick jab and she’s got a sprout in her mouth. She chews violently, recklessly, and shrugs as she swallows. “Tastes fine.” She spears another. “We need to find out where everyone else is. I’ll send messages when we get back to our room, to make sure everyone’s ok.”

 _Our room_. The orphanage had dormitories too, only they were more the size of this hall, with rows upon rows of tiny cots, and never a silent moment to truly rest amidst the sighs and wails and insistent tapping of the rain. What a luxury, to have a space all their own.

He used to dream of far off schools like this one. A mirage of parents who didn’t love him enough to keep, but enough to send him to a place as nice as this. None of the children at the tables around them look ill-fed or abused. They don’t even know well enough to be nervous of Fjord, to shrink from his tusks and the implications they paint. Nobody’s taught them to be afraid yet.

“I think that’s a good plan. We need more info. Don’t know if Caleb’s in a position to respond, but maybe Yasha, or Nott, wherever the hell she got to-”

“And what about tomorrow?” Caduceus asks. “We’re meant to start our instruction then.” He’s looking to Fjord for guidance, but Fjord isn’t convinced he’ll follow his lead if it comes down to it. He has his own mind. That’s what Fjord likes about him.

“Well, then, we’ll take it as it comes,” Fjord says, and takes a bite of the meat. It’s hot and filling and lacking the sourness of poison or the spongy feel of rot. It’s a good meal.

He doesn’t feel safe, persay. But he feels steady, and that’s close enough to it for now.

\---

“It’s not working.”

“What do you mean, it’s not working?”

“I mean the magic isn’t taking.” Jester snaps her fingers in the air to demonstrate. “Nothing. I tried asking the Traveler but he’s not answering and it doesn’t feel right when I cast. Like something really big is sitting on my chest, holding the magic down.”

“Hmm.” Fjord experimentally focuses on the cool edge of the Summer’s Dance. A moment later, the falchion springs to life in his hand with a mist of briny spray, showering the three of them in their little circle between the rows of beds. “So it’s not like they just have a dispel up on the room.”

“No,” muses Caduceus. He raises his hand and the doorknob begins to glow faintly. “My magic is unaffected as well.”

Jester huffs in frustration. “Well something’s wrong with mine. I can’t do-” she waves her hand and the nearest sconce snuffs out, “anything. Oh.” She waves it again and the light re-ignites. “Maybe it’s just the message then?”

“Yasha could be somewhere that’s warded. How about Nott?”

Jester tries Nott, then she tries Yasha again, and Caleb, and even Beau. After the last attempt, she sinks back on her heels and crumples her hands in her skirt. “Sorry, I don’t think I can try anymore tonight,” she murmurs. “I’m out of spells.” He feels her disappointment just as keenly. Without Jester’s messages, they’ve got no way to communicate with the rest of the party.

“We’ll figure something out,” Fjord says, because they will, because they always do. If they can’t communicate, then they’ll have to get someone else to do it for them, which means winning favours, which means putting on a good show. He can do that. He’s never stopped, really.

They spend the rest of the evening experimenting with the limits of the magic barrier. Fjord’s illusionary fox bounds circles around Jester’s shimmering duplicates as Caduceus decomposes a carrot scrap from dinner into dust. They don’t test anything that might leave a mark, but everything they do try works. Except Jester’s messages, the only thing they truly need. Caduceus finally declares that he’s tapped as well, and lays his staff down on the floor.

That’s another strange thing: none of their weapons were confiscated. As far as they can tell, nothing at all was taken from them, and a small part of Fjord starts to wonder if maybe Tross was telling more of the truth than he’d originally thought. If they’re simply captives being fed the lie of future training, why leave them their weapons and armour? Why not post an armed guard at their door? Which apparently they’re now allowed to open and close at will – nobody’s come by to reset the magical lock. It seems they’re free to wander, though where to he’s not sure. He’s fairly certain he could find his way back to both the dining hall and the courtyard if need be. The routes were simple enough to remember.

Fjord eventually follows Jester and Caduceus to bed, his exhausted body not quite yet recovered from the previous night’s beating, but he stays awake a while after Caduceus’s snores begin to rumble, contemplating. The bed beside his is conspicuously empty. Someone came in to make it while they were gone. It’s like the room has forgotten Beau ever existed.

When he does sleep, he dreams of the pattern of orbs from the Headmistress’s door. The multicoloured planes shift and undulate as he watches, dripping seawater into the grooves as they rotate amidst the fathoms of the cosmos. The circles eventually find their orbit in a perfect ring around a single yellow eye, unblinking in the darkness.

**_Control_ ** _._

Yes.

**_Patience_ ** _._

He knows.

**_Reward_ ** _._

For what?

Silence.

Silence.

Then… _click._

Fjord’s eyes fly open and his muscles tense. He searches for the source of the noise and only catches the edge of a swishing hem before the door closes tightly, blocking out the light of the hallway. All he can make out is a vague, monotone figure who stands by the door, unmoving.

“Who’s there?” comes Jester’s bleary whisper from the other side of the room, and a moment later the sconce is flickering back to life, and he hears her gasp.

The shapes and colours come together in a vision both familiar and alien. Shadows fall on all the wrong places, marking the absence of features more than their presence, and the relief he should feel turns sour in his stomach.

“Oh, _Caleb._ ”

He thinks for a moment that Caleb’s hair is simply pulled back somehow, until he turns his head towards Jester’s voice and he realizes it’s _gone_. The auburn locks that fell so long in tangled sheets over his face have disappeared, replaced with neatly cropped sides and a short crown of gentle waves that ends just above the temple.

Jester jumps from her bed and darts forward, presses her blue fingers to the edges of his cheeks, traces the cleft of his shaved chin, where not a nick remains to remind them it was ever anything but smooth.

Caleb tilts his head down at her touch, shying back just an inch, and what would once have covered his expressive eyes in full now barely hides his forehead. He has never looked so young.

“You look very handsome,” Jester says after a long moment, and Fjord doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s blinking back tears. Caleb doesn’t respond, simply takes her wrists and lowers her hands back down.

 _Where have you been? What did they want? Why did they send you back?_ A thousand questions roil in Fjord’s chest. Where does he even start?

“How do you feel, Mr. Caleb?” Caduceus asks softly.

Caleb, who is not quite Caleb with his washed hair and cleanshaven cheeks and spotless, unblemished robes, finally speaks. “Tired, I think.” There’s nothing behind his voice – no gladness, no fear. Just… nothing.

“Are you ok?” Jester asks. _Did they hurt you? Did they get to you? Are you still alive in there?_

“ _Ja_. Merely a long day. May I borrow your sketchbook, Jester? I’d like to jot down a few notes before I forget, for tomorrow.” He’s still holding her hands, his thumb pressed into her palm, and after a moment her eyes widen. Fjord can’t guess what she’s realized.

“Sure, Caleb. Of course you can.”

He goes to one of the writing desks, takes a quill and begins to scribble on the parchment. The three of them watch, transfixed, not daring to break the silence. Every few moments, Caleb’s hand wanders up to rub at the nape of his neck, running his palm against the grain of the smooth bristles.

He writes for no longer than five minutes before tearing the pages out and stuffing them into the folds of his robe. “That’s finished,” he murmurs to nobody, and stands. “You can put out the light now, Jester. We should all sleep.”

“Right,” Jester says, then more quietly, “Do you have lessons in the morning?”

“…Mm.”

“Us too.” He opens his mouth to finally spill out one of the jackrabbit questions bounding through his head, but Jester catches his eye and shakes her head.

“I’m sure you’ll learn a lot.” Fjord has no idea how to interpret that statement, and Caleb doesn’t elaborate.

Jester extinguishes the flames once more, and Fjord forces himself to lie back down. He watches Caleb through half-lidded eyes as he sits on the edge of Beau’s vacated bed, searching for flickers of wrongness beyond the hair and dress. Caleb says nothing, does nothing but toe off his soft-soled shoes. He lets his feet dangle like a child’s over the side of the mattress, staring at the floor. Then he slides under the covers and turns his back to Fjord and draws his knees up to his waist. The sheets pull around his legs. Fjord has never seen him sleep without Nott tucked to his side, and the bed seems too big for him without her.

The fatigue hits Fjord again in force, and his last thought before his eyes close is that they’ll have time to discuss all this, tomorrow.

When he opens them next, it’s to the sight of a perfectly made bed and an empty pillow. Like Beau, Caleb was never there at all.

Fjord sits up, cursing beneath his breath, and as he plants his hand on the sideboard a little slip of paper falls from his uncurled fingers onto the floor. Confused, he picks it up. One side holds the remnants of a smiling doodle in purple ink, torn on a sideways slant. He turns it over and finds more doodles, this time in black. The flowery lines bloom around achingly familiar symbols.

He may not have studied it in as much earnest as Beau and Caleb, but he’d borrowed the copy of Avantika’s cipher on many nights, traced certain passages of Caleb’s translation enough times that he’ll never forget the shape of the underlined words. It’s the only evidence left that someone else’s dreams were once as haunted as his.

It’s enough to parse the lines of ink into a single word of text, a message that only he could recognize as anything but mindless scribbles.

 ** _Watching_** _._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, we'll take a little step back and find out what Caleb's been up to :)
> 
> If anyone's going to ECCC next weekend, you might see me pounding away on the next batch of chapters during the two hours I spend camping out the CritRole panel line, haha. (I still can't believe I'm going! Got into this fandom at just the right time, it seems.) I've got the next chapter written (if not edited) so there shouldn't be a delay in the posting schedule.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wow I sure did promise last time I wouldn’t make this a late update, didn’t I? Turns out I grossly overestimated how much free time I’d have in the last week, and it didn’t help that I found myself procrastinating more usual on finishing the first draft of this chapter. It’s an important one and I wanted to get it right, which naturally led to unnecessarily freaking myself out and putting it off.
> 
> FYI we’re going to be playing a little fast and loose with the chronology going forward. Bouncing around to fill in the gaps is something of a necessity with this many POVs. (PS don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about Nott and Yasha! They're coming up eventually!)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: thoughts about self-harm, non-consensual body modification (hair cutting), general creepiness??

The first thing Caleb registers – before the warmth of the sun hitting his chin, before the softness of the sheets and the empty space behind his knees where usually a small figure would nestle – is the scent of fresh baked bread.

(In another life, this was what he used to wake up to: a crack of light through the bedroom door, and his mother nursing little black buns off the stone in the oven.

She’d hand him two and a slice of hard cheese before nudging him out the door to start on chores. He never really enjoyed the time spent mucking the landlord’s stable, but it wasn’t so bad with something hot and fresh in his pocket to look forward to.)

The scent is mingled with other things – laundry soap and thistle and soot – and he opens his eyes to a meadow of pale blue sheets.

Hesitantly, Caleb reaches out and drags his blackened fingertips across the crease of the fabric. They leave a trail of smudges along the pristine blue edge. The pillow is cool beneath his cheek, and from the corner of his eye he spots flecks of dried mud scattered like ants across the case.

There’s a breeze drifting down from somewhere above him, light and clear. It carries away a little of the morning lethargy, and the taste of ash.

(In another life, this is what he used to wake up to: a high window overlooking a bed with a soft mattress and softer sheets, another bed pushed against the far wall – only sometimes occupied – in a room nearly as wide as the whole house his family once shared.

When he was a child, his mother would lay her coat across him every night, and her scarf after that, and he would still shudder when the wind whistled through the cracks in the wall. For so many years there was no word from his father on the front, no money for new blankets when the old ones frayed. It was all Bren had known, until he arrived at the Academy and realized there were beds that stayed warm all year round.)

Caleb draws the blankets to his chin, then up and over his head. He lets himself have this one last moment of childish make-believe. If he stuffs his hands far enough below the sheets and shuts his eyes, then he can be fifteen again, and so excited for the days ahead. So very _grateful_.

The fantasy lasts about half a minute before his stomach is twisted in so many anxious knots that he’s forced to sit up. In the absence of any other distraction, he takes in his new reality.

A tray sits by the closed oaken door. Its silver surface is lavished with a hearty spread: soft buns and butter pats, thin slices of ham, a dish of cream, a mug of coffee. The bread looks soft enough to tear easily between his fingers, nothing at all like the heavy dark rye of his mother’s _brötchen._ Caleb swallows past the rumbling of his stomach – always a little pinched, but not as often empty these days – and turns his head away from the offering.

He spies his coat on the other bed, folded in a careful square atop the pillow. By its side sit his holsters and books, and on the floor, a pair of mud-stained boots. He makes the queasy realization someone must have undressed him last night, when he was still asleep. He thinks of unknown hands maneuvering his arms above his head, pulling off his coat, pawing at his waist and unfastening the belt that kept his holsters secure while he lay lifeless on the bed. He wonders if they wore white robes. He wonders if they said cruel things under the cover of his unconsciousness, and if he’ll ever remember them.

(In another life, this is what he used to wake up to: his clothing rearranged on its own while he slept, and not remembering who’d done it, and not enough in himself to care.

It was necessary, back then, in that place. He didn’t have the faculties left to do anything but count the hours.)

The room is warm despite the breeze from the window, but Caleb’s body still shivers. The trembling only starts to quiet as he unfolds the coat and draws it across his shoulders. The scent of the road blankets his other senses in blessed familiarity, and his arms are covered now, and when he replaces the scarf and the boots there’s little of him left exposed.

Wrapped again in the ratty coat, he’s horridly out of place amongst the fine furnishings. Caleb Widogast – the weary vagabond, the nobody – doesn’t belong in this room. He clings to that certainty like an anchor in the storm.

Caleb takes the tray and retreats to the farthest corner of the room. He presses his back into the small space between bedframe and wall and begins to eat, because despite the sickness in his stomach his body has known too many years of hunger to let him refuse food when offered. It’s not worth worrying about the meal being laced. If he was meant such a quick death, it would have happened already.

It’s 3:15 in the afternoon. The coffee’s gone cold. Maybe they hadn’t meant for him to sleep this long, but his body has a mind of its own. It will sleep for days, given the chance. He’s never had much choice in the matter.

The sweet pastry churns in his gut. Caleb doesn’t eat food this fine often. It doesn’t always agree with him when he does.

Then again, Bren never ate food this fine either, but he took to it alright in the end. All it takes is enough time to adjust.

The knock on the door comes just as the last bite of bread passes his lips. He’s expecting it, but that doesn’t stop the cold wave of elated dread from racing down his spine. Even so, he forces himself to stand on trembling legs and set the tray on the bed. He won’t meet his fate cowering in the corner like a beaten dog. He has that much pride left in him.

\---

Two attendants provide an escort through the quiet halls, but they needn’t have bothered. Caleb knows the route they’re on, knows it precisely down to the last smoothed stone and archway.

The chamber they stop at isn’t the one he was expecting, but it’s in the same vicinity: a little deeper in, a little closer to the boundary of the wall. This private wing is where the researchers work. How illicit, how _wonderful_ it had been, the first time he’d been invited to shadow greater footsteps down these restricted halls. He’d thought of the jealous looks of his classmates and felt proud.

One of the attendants opens the door inclines his head, gesturing Caleb forward. He doesn’t move. It’s not a defiant act. (A defiant act would have spent the last reserves of his magic to set the bedroom ablaze, and himself in it.) His legs have simply stopped functioning. There’s a snake of nauseous fear coiling in his throat, his heart pounding so insistently he feels the pulse of blood in his palms. The attendants shrug and gently push him in. The door swings shut at his back.

A well-furnished office greets him on the other side. Curved bookcases ring the entirety of the back wall and climb to the high ceiling, filled with scrolls piled in perfect honeycombs and row upon row of books. Armchairs sit in fashionable order around little empty tables, each overlaid with a rich cloth of embroidered velvet. The tall chair behind the desk is unoccupied, but the privacy means nothing. The silence means nothing. His heartbeat doesn’t quiet.

There are closed doors leading off to the right and left. Years of paranoid habit tell Caleb to check the other rooms, to clear any closed-off space before laying down his guard but the thought of opening a door and seeing someone staring back is more chilling than the uncertainty. Instead he keeps the wall at his back and observes what he can from the periphery.

The space hangs heavy with magic. The air itself is thick with it, and another circular room springs to mind. Caleb can almost feel the blue ley lines of Yussah’s teleportation circle buzzing beneath his feet. All the power he ever wanted at his fingertips, if he’d only reach out and _earn_ , and he’d been so terrified to find out what that meant.

That was a different world than now. Yussah hadn’t asked for anything from him in the end, and he’d had friends waiting below for his return, somebody to notice his absence.

 _Friends_.

He’d started calling them that in his head, hadn’t he? A reluctant acknowledgement made at precisely the wrong time.

Caleb’s stomach swoops as the air seems to hum, just faintly, and then there’s the sound of footsteps past the door to the right. He borrows some of Beau’s bravado and forces his back to straighten. He finds that knowing what’s coming doesn’t lessen the terror.

The last time he’d seen him had been through Frumpkin’s eyes. That too-focused perspective holds nothing to the vision of Trent Ikithon, whole and present and real, stepping through the door. Caleb isn’t fifteen anymore but the moment Ikithon’s gaze meets his he feels like a child again, trapped in a room that’s too large for him. The man is older now, and the age wears on his face in pockmarked scars and grey temples where once there was only black, but his eyes are as sharp as ever. They fix on Caleb as Ikithon begins to stride across the room.

Is this how it ends? The taste of one last memory on his lips before the darkness comes forever? There’s a tired resignation that follows the thought. It’s preferable to the panic clawing at his throat, begging to take its place.

Nott is safe. She got away. That is enough. None of the others are special enough to end up in rooms like this, with men like Ikithon. It’s only him. It’s enough. It has to be enough.

Ikithon raises his hand, a foot from Caleb’s jaw, and Caleb closes his eyes and prepares for whatever dark oblivion awaits parent-killers on the other side of the veil. It’s a meagre atonement, to die, but it will have to serve. It’s all he has.

The darkness doesn’t come. Instead, there are fingers tracing the edge of his cheek. He knows the hand, remembers in perfect detail every knuckle and callous that slapped him awake when he fainted from blood loss and pain, that drew his skin apart in ribbons and left things inside of him that he couldn’t tear out. Never, in two years of tutelage, had that hand ever touched him with gentleness. It frightens him more than any knife could.

Ikithon’s touch lingers only a moment before drifting down to rest on his shoulder, and Caleb lets his eyes open. He thinks in an incredulous daze of fear and heartsickness that his mentor used to be taller.

“Bren,” Ikithon says, “I’m glad to see you awake.” His voice is tinged with emotion, a sort of solemn wonderment mixed with genuine pleasure, and Caleb doesn’t trust the sentiment for a second. He holds in his mind the memory of gatherings and speeches and enticing words, all the masks that Ikithon taught him to wear, every lesson on how best to draw someone in with a sweetened tongue.

The eyes though… those are harder to fake. Caleb doesn’t trust himself to read what emotion they betray, but it’s something other than cold indifference or steely anger. He hadn’t been prepared for anything else.

“Come, sit,” Ikithon says, and gestures towards a set of armchairs rather than the imposing desk Caleb had been expecting. He guides Caleb forward with a hand still locked on his shoulder. Caleb lets himself be pushed.

When they’re seated, Ikithon leans forward and rests his chin on steepled fingers, examining Caleb, cataloguing every detail that’s changed in their years apart. They always had the same uncanny memory, the two of them. Caleb has wondered if that’s what drew his attention first. He’s _hoped._ It’s easier to believe that was the lure than to wonder what else Ikithon might have seen of himself in Bren.

“I searched for you, after you left the asylum, but you were beyond my sight. I had to assume you dead.”

The amulet did its duty then. He hopes it will protect Nott as long as it did him.

“Where did you disappear to, Bren?”

Caleb holds his breath. Eye contact is difficult at the best of times. He finds his gaze flitting over the silvery threads of the velvet table cover, watching for movement, waiting for the first hint of violence. That too doesn’t come.

He’s made plan upon plan in the last few years, first by himself and then with Nott – ways to survive and to run and to remain unseen – but he has no plan now. He’d had no reason to expect Ikithon would keep him alive long enough to need one.

Too late, he realizes his nails have gone back to scratching at the bindings on his arms, so he grips the edges of his coat, and tries to keep his breath steady, and tries to not seem as pathetic as he feels.

Ikithon lets out a low breath. “Is there anything left of you in there at all?” Caleb forces himself to glance up, just high enough to read the set of Ikithon’s jaw and see if his gentle tone holds frustration or genuine concern.

He learned so many things from this man, so many things he didn’t want to know. He’s never forgotten a single lesson. That’s the only weapon he has left.

Learning to lie was harder for him than the others. Eodwulf’s easy grin was all he ever needed to get his way. And Astrid, she slipped from wide-eyed ingenue to self-assured aristocrat so seamlessly it was often hard to believe she was born as low as the rest of them. She had a knack for playing characters. It was one of her greatest strengths, and Bren loved her all the more for knowing it was only him who ever saw her true face: the intelligent, fierce girl behind the mask.

But Bren… his eyes were always too expressive, his posture too common, his words too hesitant. And so Ikithon punished, and he practiced, and eventually he came to understand what Astrid and Eodwulf did so easily. He could be anyone, so long as he remembered he was not himself. Bren learned to recite faces as well as spells, and it carried him through parties and political meetings and into the graces of men he’d later help tie to the rack. It was usually Ikithon’s face that he wore, and proudly so.

“I do… I do not…” Caleb stutters out, barely louder than a whisper.

Now, only one face springs to mind.

_Forgive me, Mollymauk. There’s one last thing I must steal._

“I do not know who Bren is. My name is… has been… Caleb. Beyond that… I do not remember.” It takes no effort at all to ensure the shaking of his hands is visible.

Ikithon furrows his brow as he leans in closer. “You say you remember nothing?”

Caleb shakes his head. _Molly’s stricken face, stumbling words from once-poised lips, how lost he looked that night with the name Lucien hanging over their table_. “I remember… feeling empty. Like there was nothing inside me, for so long. But I do… there are some things. Like memories from childhood, shining too bright. I did not know if they were real.”

_Molly’s wild eyes as he stared at Cree, scrambling for purchase on a bed of unfamiliar soil. He told her what she needed to hear, and she believed him, because he only offered what she gave._

“But I… I remember your face.”

Something awakens in Ikithon’s expression, something almost warm, almost relieved. Caleb swallows, and lays down his final card. “Were you someone important to me?”

He’s not prepared for the hand to reach out and touch him again and it takes every inch of self-control he has not to shrink back into the chair, but he holds fast and lets Ikithon take his hands, lets him smooth away the tremors with his thumbs.

_Empty. Be empty._

“Yes,” Ikithon murmurs. “We were close, you and I,” and _gods,_ he’d thought they were. As though it was normal for a teacher to spirit children away from school to his private home in the country. “You were my student, here at the Academy.” It had all made perfect sense, because they were so similar, because Trent had cared for him, even if he-

“We were attacked last night,” Caleb blurts out, because he can feel Molly’s mask slipping. He makes a show of searching for his pouches within his coat, forcing the other man to release his hands, and Caleb feels a little less like he might vomit all over Ikithon’s white and gold robes. “I do not know what they were after. My… the people I was travelling with. They were injured.”

“Ah, yes. The Mighty Nein. Rest assured, your friends are safe.” Ikithon pauses, musing. “I remember their entry in the tournament in Zadash. To think, we were so close that day, and to not have crossed paths… a shame.” The promise of their safety means nothing, but there’s no way to argue for more information without putting himself in a more precarious position. “What a strange band of creatures. How did a man with no memories come to join their ranks?”

 _The Nein are close enough to a carnival._ “They found me,” he says. “By the road, when I knew nothing. I could barely speak. I believe one of them gave me the name Caleb, but it is all a little fuzzy.”

A set of footsteps sounds from down the hall, clicking softly past the entrance to the office. Caleb startles. He’d forgotten there was anything else in the world outside the two of them.

“And your magic?”

“Taught from books,” he says, gesturing at the spellbooks in his holsters. There’s no point to hiding them. “It felt… familiar.”

At this, Ikithon smiles. “I don’t doubt it. You were a very promising student.”

 _I was. Look how well you’ve taught me_.

They sit for a long moment in silence. Caleb practices looking blankly at the floor, avoiding Ikithon’s gaze, being there and not there at once. These are all things he doesn’t need a mask for. He waits to see if the lie holds.

Finally, Ikithon speaks. “I can see your life has been hard, Bren, since we last met. And I was hard on you too, perhaps harder than I should have been. There is no use dwelling on that. We cannot change the past.” Caleb is caught between a snort and a wince, but he swallows both down. _Be empty._ “Still. We were working towards something, you and I, something important. It is long past time to finish that work.” Caleb’s stomach plummets. “I saw last night how far you have come, even on your own.”

_You’re clever, Bren. Cleverer than your classmates._

“I am certain that your progress will be exponential now that you can begin proper training again.”

_I would be honoured to welcome you into my private sessions. I only take the best._

“The Soltryce Academy welcomes you back with open arms, Bren Ermendrud. Together, we may be able to retrieve what you have lost.”

_What do you say?_

As though there was any other answer but yes.

Slowly, Caleb nods.

“Good. We begin tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Everything begins tomorrow. Tomorrow, he’s Bren, not Caleb, and his life ceases to be his own.

Ikithon stands, and for a heartstopping moment Caleb thinks that he’ll reach out and touch his cheek again and he’s sure that’ll be the moment the mask shatters, but he only lifts up a lock of Caleb’s dirty hair between his fingers.

“A hard life,” he repeats thoughtfully. “That is all over now.” He says it like a kindness. Maybe he thinks it is. “Come. You’re better than this mess.”

He follows, because that’s what the mask instructs him to do. Empty people do what they’re told. Empty people don’t scream and cry and rage about the unfairness of their lives. They don’t lament that they were finally near to something almost like a shred of happiness and it was all ripped away. Empty people listen, and do, and repeat. They take what they’re given.

 _Mollymauk Tealeaf. Bren Ermendrud._ He wants to live long enough to choose a new name for himself.

They exit through the left door. It leads to a small antechamber and two other rooms. Ikithon leads him into the first, which turns out to be a private bathing chamber. It’s not hard to intuit the other might be to a bedroom – few at the Academy live off campus. The chamber is as lavish as the rest of the building. Steps lead down into a sunken pool wide enough for four men to sit abreast, and steam drifts up in wisps where several glowing rocks sit just below the surface. Jester would promise him a host of kisses for learning that enchantment, he’s sure of it. She’s always complaining about bathing in cold rivers.

 _Don’t think about Jester. Don’t think about any of them._ _Be empty._

Ikithon sits on one of the benches by the side of the room and a moment later, the door opens again. A woman steps through, middle-aged and garbed in the plain tunic of a servant. There are many such servants at the Academy. To most students, this is perfectly natural. Not many were born poor enough to learn to wash their own clothes or scrub their own floors. She holds a stack of towels and sets them down in a practiced motion on the bench beside Ikithon, then holds out her arms.

Caleb knows what’s expected of him. He’s gone through the same treatment before, when there were gatherings to attend and chances for Ikithon to show off his proteges and how far they’d come from their base beginnings. Knowing it doesn’t make the offering any easier.

The coat goes first, and once that’s gone he already feels so naked that the rest is almost a formality in mortification. He keeps his eyes trained to the floor as he peels off layers of mud-caked clothes – his tunic, his undershirt, his belt and trousers, the socks Nott’s darned one too many times. He doesn’t look to see if Ikithon is watching the way his ribs move beneath his skin, the concavity of his chest or the scars on his back from errant arrows and sword strikes. He used to be handsome, or so he was told. It was useful, like everything else about him. He hopes all Ikithon sees now is ugliness and waste. It’s one less weapon to put back in his hands.

Caleb hisses as he steps into the water. His bruised feet still ache from last night’s desperate fight, and new dagger wounds reveal themselves with each inch he lowers himself into the water. Still, the sting is better than standing naked on the steps so he hurries downward and grits his teeth against the pain. The sooner he finishes, the sooner the humiliation is over.

He dunks his hair back into the pool, lets the water carry over his ears and block out all other sound. The servant passes him a bar of rosewater soap and he scrubs in earnest, trusting the mist to disguise his grimace as the bar glides over his open skin. Each new cut the soap touches burns, shocking and painful, and he shivers as sparks run down his spine. He feels lightheaded. The feeling is not… unwelcome. Beneath the rapidly clouding water, he presses a nail to one of the wounds, but with the initial surprise past there are no more sparks. Now it only hurts.

By the time he’s satisfied that there’s nothing left to clean, the pool has taken on a murky shade, rank with the sloughed off remnants of Caleb’s final disguise. He hands the soap back to the servant and makes to push himself out of the water when he feels the cold slide of a blade against the back of his neck.

“Hold still,” she says calmly. It’s the first time she’s spoken. Does she know who she works for? Does she find it at all strange, to be bathing a filthy stranger in the office of one of the most powerful men in the Empire? Or is this just another day of work for her?

He holds still, and doesn’t register the meaning of the metallic _shching_ by his ear until he looks down and sees strands of auburn hair floating past his shoulder.

Everything else that’s happened in the last twelve hours – seeing Ikithon, losing the rest of the Nein, the Academy and the office – that _this_ should be the thing that breaks him… but it’s the only piece of him left that proves he doesn’t belong to this place, and he’s begging before he can call back the words.

“Bitte- bit- _please_ , you do not need to-” he whispers, but Ikithon’s reprimand from behind cuts him off.

“It’s full of mats. It needs to go,” and the disgust in his voice rolls through Caleb’s shoulders as the scissors resume their course. He hunches forward and the woman grasps his bangs and gently pulls him back so she can reach the front of his face with a straight razor. The water grows darker still with layer upon layer of sodden hair, floating in little ripples around his chest.

When she’s finished, she guides his head underwater, and he thinks that drowning him would be the true kindness. It could all be over, if only she would hold him under like a newborn kitten and _squeeze_. Then he remembers Nott’s terrified eyes by the river, and feels sick for even having the thought.

_Don’t think about her. Be empty._

When Caleb comes back up, there’s nothing left to hide behind anymore. He can’t shield his face behind a wave of dirty strands, can’t hide his reddened cheeks or watery eyes as he snatches the towel from the servant’s hands. He decides that he hates her, because he isn’t allowed to hate Ikithon now, with the mask he wears. She avoids his venomous glare, doesn’t look him in the eye. He hates her all the more for the cowardice he sees reflected on her face.

He reaches out towards the pile of old clothes, but she stops him and hands him a folded set of robes in deep, vibrant green, along with new undergarments and a tunic that’s a size too large for his skinny frame. He has to knot the belt twice to keep the pants on his hips. Ikithon clucks his tongue in displeasure.

“You’ll have proper ones tomorrow,” he says. “These will do for now.”

The servant passes him back his books, still in their holsters, and his component and money pouches, and takes the rest as she leaves. He doubts he’ll ever see the coat again.

He looks to Ikithon, and sees approval at his new appearance. Caleb hopes the scrapes on his arms bleed straight through the fabric.

\----

By the time they return to the main office, another servant has been through to deliver dinner. Caleb eats slowly. His jaw hurts from clenching it. Thankfully, Ikithon spends the meal perusing missives and seems content to leave Caleb to his own devices, which mainly involve brushing his fingers over the remnants of his hair. His shorn head feels alien to the touch.

It’s not important, he reminds himself. Bren kept his hair short. Anything else was impractical. And empty people don’t care what they look like.

(Molly did. He cared a lot.)

(Maybe Caleb is better at being empty than he was.)

Ikithon finally looks up. “You’re tired.”

He is tired. That’s about all he can feel at the moment.

“You may return to your prepared room, if you wish. However… some of your companions have been asking after you.” Caleb’s head jerks up. “Perhaps it would quiet their worries if you spent the night with them instead. They need to be focused for their own studies. Their concern is a distraction.”

A part of Caleb is singing with the thought that he might get a few last moments with his friends. The larger part knows, _knows_ that this must be some sort of test. Ikithon does not give gifts. He does not endorse sentimentality unless there’s something to be gained from it.

(He’d thought he and Astrid had done a wonderful job, hiding their romance. It had been their grand secret. It was only near the end when he began to wonder if perhaps Trent had always known, had been encouraging it from the start.)

“… _Ja_. That would be good, I think. For one night, at least.”

“Come prepared with the enchantments you already know. We’ll review them in the morning, and decide how to proceed.”

“Alright.”

“Goodnight, Bren.”

“Caleb,” he corrects. Ikithon frowns, but doesn’t argue.

The moment of defiance is barely a spark, but he holds onto the feeling and doesn’t let it fizzle. It’s enough to walk out the door with his head high, back into the waiting graces of the same attendants. It might be enough to keep him alive.

He spends the walk through the halls thinking on ways he could fail the unknown test. If he was meant to show indifference towards the suggestion of seeing his friends, he’s already failed, so that can’t be it. And the amulet will prevent Ikithon from…

But the amulet is gone. Somehow, the full weight of that hadn’t hit him till now.

There’s no protection from divination anymore. Nothing at all to stop anyone from simply looking into his mind and hearing his words, observing his actions. He’s not so naïve to believe Ikithon uncovered all those traitors by being in the right place for the right conversation. No place is hidden from a wizard that powerful.

No clothes, no hair, no amulet, no walls to hide him. Naked as the day he ( _-Molly)_ was pulled from the dirt.

And so when he opens the door and the sconce ignites and he lights on Fjord’s surprised stare and Caduceus’s worried smile and Jester… Jester, who is some days the only reason he is convinced there is still something good and untouched in the world, smiling and running up to him, he gathers up every note of bittersweet relief ( _Beau and Yasha, gone, did they escape or-_ ) and forces himself to feel _nothing_.

He grasps Jester’s hands and shields one as he writes a word in her palm and trusts she’ll understand the meaning, because she is always the one that hears him first. She keeps quiet. He trusts Caduceus not to ask for anything not volunteered, and he doesn’t disappoint. He watches Fjord, the eternal wildcard, and doesn’t trust, but _hopes_ he will be patient. And he is. He lets Caleb hurriedly write his list of spells – minus a few – and then slink off to bed without a word, and Caleb would feel a rush of affection for his friends and how they’re up to the task, if he were allowed to feel anything at all.

The note is easy enough to slip into Fjord’s curled fist. It’s much harder to force himself to put on his boots and walk out the door without saying a word, knowing he might not get another chance.

His feet carry him back down long hallways and around corridors, an hour before the rest of the school is awake, and this time when he reaches the door to the office, he knocks of his own accord.


	5. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jester, Fjord, and Caduceus all have very different first days.

It’s a relief to breathe the open air again. Being outside always makes Jester’s heart feel like it’s expanding upwards and outwards, drawn by a long-held yearning to run towards the horizon, to see how close she can get to the sky.

It’s not that she was never allowed outdoors when she was a child. An errand or two, every few months, just enough to get her out from underfoot; those were her very favourite days. Her feet never had so far to run, so many places to carry her to. Some days it was hard to return to her room, knowing how much more was out there to see and do and feel. But she had her mother, and her paints, and a window to watch the ships pass, and all the time in the world to imagine the other horizons they were sailing off to. That’s a pretty wonderful life, all in all.

Alena leads her down a set of stone steps and out into the sunlight, and she breathes deeply, and feels a different sort of longing in her chest, not the kind that opens and blooms but the kind that squeezes and aches. She should probably be more nervous of whatever she’s being brought to, but there isn’t much room in her heart left to fear for herself with all the worry she feels for Nott and Beau and Caleb and Yasha.

Maybe one of them is looking up at the same blue sky, wondering about her too, hoping she’s safe. The thought eases the ache, but not by much.  

 _Watching_ , Fjord had whispered to her over breakfast, before the children came and led them on their own separate paths. _Wait,_ Caleb had signed into her hand with his thumb, before he disappeared again. Someone is watching him, maybe all of them. She doesn’t have to think too hard to figure out who that might be.

_Traveler, what spells would let you spy on somebody?_

_Can you teach me how to protect them?_

He’s quiet again, but he hasn’t abandoned her. He promised her he never would. She just has to trust him.

(- _cages, and chains, Yasha and Caleb and Nott and Beau and Molly gone and her silent prayers caught behind the gag in her mouth, ‘why did you forget about me’, ‘did I do something wrong’, ‘help us, pl-’_ )

When she really needs him to, he’ll come back. Even if he takes his time. He’s never let her down before.

The path winds down behind the main building through a copse of trees and wildflowers. She bends down to gather a handful of daisies before dashing to catch up with Alena. Something to give Yasha, when they find her again. Yasha, who’s stronger than all of them, stronger than Jester, and definitely fine right now.

Besides, these people don’t seem like they would torture someone the way Lorenzo did. They take care of _kids_.

(Caleb was a kid, and they hurt him plenty.)

She’s certain of one thing: Caleb would have never cut his hair unless someone made him do it. No matter what Fjord says, she doesn’t think being patient is the right call. Not if it means Caleb’s losing bits of himself while they stay. Not if it means Yasha is alone in a cell again, and Jester is trapped on the other side of the wall, unable to say a word.

At the end of the path, tucked into a corner of the campus, they come upon a small circular building. The walls glide up to a rounded top, ringed with buttresses of carved marble in perfect symmetry. If she cranes her head, Jester can just catch the edge of one elegant wing peeking out from some large sculpture on the upper level.

The entrance is a simple archway, leading into a polished tile atrium. A boy – human, with sandy brown curls and panelled stoles over his silver tunic – rises from a bench to greet them.

“Hullo,” he says. He’s maybe four, five years younger than her? In the absence of any contrary evidence, she decides that his voice sounds kind. “Are you Jester?”

“Mhm,” she hums. “That’s me.” She peers past him, trying to get the lay of the land. More archways leading to dim hallways at the back of the sanctuary, empty pews lined up towards an altar, hangings of white silk criss-crossing the high ceiling in deep swoops, the hint of white talons peeking through the folds. Nobody else in the temple but the three of them.

When she turns back around, Alena is gone.

Jester sucks in a breath. She’s not worried about being left alone. She can definitely handle herself. It’s just that Alena was familiar, is all.

“Are you the priest… person?” she asks, turning back to the boy. His voice may be kind, but that doesn’t mean she trusts him. It would be pretty stupid to do that, considering how many assholes they meet.  

He rubs at the back of his neck, glancing backwards like he’s waiting for someone else to take the question, but there’s only Jester. After a long pause, he finally answers. “Nuh. I’m just an acolyte. Master Kirn asked me to get you settled.” He pauses, and the way his eyes avoid hers reminds her of how Caleb twitches when a stranger asks him something and he wasn’t ready to speak yet today. “We weren’t expecting a new recruit.”

Her heart squeezes painfully, partly because he reminds her of Caleb and partly because he’s unhappy and unsure and like always a bit of that feeling blossoms in her own chest. Like she’s done something wrong. Like there’s something she has to fix. But she wasn’t the one who forced her to come here, to be in this place so far from her friends. It’s not fair for her to have to share his worry too.

“Well… here I am!” She adds a little _tada_ hand flourish to accent the proclamation and after a moment he breaks into a small, shy smile. A little of the anxiety eases.

The boy – Eli, as she soon learns – takes her on a short tour of the temple. It’s only by the grace of her previous visits to the Platinum Dragon temple in Zadash that she can nod along with something like understanding as he shows her the censors of burning oil, the rainments stored in secure cupboards, the etchings of unfamiliar scenes in the panels of the walls. The only signs of life in the whole building are the sparrows, roosting in the wings of an enormous dragon sculpture that hangs suspended from the dome. Its torso lunges through absent panels and bursts forth into the sunlight in an imitation of frozen flight.

Her paints are gone, along with everything else in the haversack, but her fingers itch to dirty up each new room’s pristine order. Jester can’t imagine how magic flows through this temple. When she casts a spell, it crackles like popcorn in her chest: a rush of excitement and uncertainty, a swoop of fear and exhilaration. It’s meant to be unpredictable. The whole place is utterly sterile. It doesn’t feel like magic to her at all.

Bahamut must be so boring.

\---

“So, uh, when did you first hear his call?”

Back in the main sanctuary, Jester perches cross-legged on one of the pews, her skirt hiked around her knees. Her newly minted companion sits much straighter, hands pressed neatly into his lap.

“Oh, well, you know… he’s kind of a new thing in Nicodranas, but I definitely think I heard the call when I was… ten?” Is that the right age? The Traveller came to her when she was younger than that, but she doesn’t know much about the other gods.  

Eli nods. “I was young too. Seven, maybe? He came to me in a dream, asked me to take up the cloth. My Da didn’t want to let me go. Meant me moving to a big city, but he still needed help around the farm.” His words come slowly and Jester shifts, caught between appearing passively interested and searching for a way to extricate herself from the conversation. Without the structure of the tour, he seems at a loss with what to do with her, and she has other places to be before the light fades.

“I’m sure he just wanted to keep you close, so he wouldn’t miss you.” There are only two windows, one on either side of the altar, and the archway at their back. In a pinch, she could scale the hangings and make a speedy exit down the outside wall. Probably not the most discreet escape though.

“Dunno about that,” he mumbles and there’s a hint of melancholy in the boy’s voice that would pluck at Jester’s heartstrings, if she didn’t have bigger concerns on her mind. “Rexxentrum was the closest place to where I lived with a temple. Three years there before I was finally admitted to the Academy.” He looks at Jester like he’s just noticing her for the first time, eyes passing over her travelling cloak and jewelry and painted nails with confusion. “But you’re not from the Sanctum. How’d you manage to get in?”

She forces his attention back onto him, curiousity getting the better of her. “Is it hard? To get in here?”

“It was for me,” he says, almost defensive. “They only take a few recruits every year. People don’t ever want to leave once they get a spot. That’s what everyone said at the Sanctum.”

There’s something niggling in the back of her mind, some incongruity between his words and what the Headmistress had said in the office, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. “I mean, I’m a really good cleric, so many powerful spells and stuff, so, you know… that’s probably why they picked me.”

Eli’s eyes dart furtively towards the hallways at the back of the temple before he leans in. “Show me?”

“Oh, um… sure?”

“I just… they still haven’t really taught me much. Master Kirn mostly just has me praying with Julia and Andras, and cleaning and stuff like that.”

A chance to show off or a blessed distraction, she won’t turn down either. “Oo, this is going to be awesome then. Be ready to have your mind _totally blown._ ” Jester flicks her fingers and the giant, razor-spiked lollypop pops into existence and descends from the ceiling. She adds a few Thaumaturgy sparks to form a comet trail as it swings in a wild arc, coming to rest an inch above the altar.

“Woah,” Eli breathes.

“Super cool, right?” she says, grinning. He nods vigorously.

“How do you do that?”

“Oh, it’s super easy. I just talk to Bahamut, and he helps me out!” Even saying it makes her feel a little dirty. _I’m promise I’m going to pass out so many pamphlets to make up for this, Traveller._

Eli’s eyes get even wider, sparks reflected in his awed gaze. “Bahamut… talks to you?”

Jester freezes. Caduceus talks with the Wildmother, right? And she talks with the Traveller. What kind of god doesn’t even talk with his worshippers? “... Yes?”

Eli’s head hangs. “They’re definitely going to choose you, then,” he mutters.

“Umm, choose me?” When Eli doesn’t respond, she pokes him in the side. “Choose me for what?”

Eli shakes his head. “Dunno. Something important. You’ll know when you’re ready,” he says with the flat intonation of someone who’s repeating back words heard a hundred times before.

Oh, she doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Fine. Weirdo.” She tinges the last word with a smile, trying to rebuild a little of the careful affinity her magic show bought them, but he’s avoiding her eyes again.

Eli begs off for other duties soon after, leaving Jester with an armful of vestments and instructions to come back tomorrow when everyone else is back from whatever super secret thing they’re doing that he absolutely can’t elaborate on, much to Jester’s frustration.

The sun is barely beginning to dip by the time she sets back for the main building. Alena is probably coming back to retrieve her at some point, so she avoids the main path and instead darts between the trees, out of sight.

It takes some searching, but she finally lands on the same patch of daisies from the morning. Jester carefully lays the vestments amongst the wildflowers, leaving just the barest hint of silver peeking out beneath the carpet of petals. She waves a hand over her body, and her blue dress shimmers and lengthens into dull grey robes. Beneath her hood her hair floats down and settles around her chin, now a mess of reddish tresses against freckled skin. Then she sits on the ground and pulls out a quill.

It would be a much easier task with a desk, true. But if she doesn’t go back to the room, Fjord and Caduceus won’t have a chance to convince her not to do what she’s intending. Fjord at least would probably insist she listen to Caleb and wait for another day or so until they can come up with a plan.

Jester is so tired of waiting. She’s tired of cages dressed in fine cloth and being told when to sit and stay and speak. She won’t leave Yasha alone again, waiting in silence for a voice that never comes. If she can’t send messages here, she’ll have to do it from outside the walls.

The forgery is imperfect, predicated on a few scant seconds of looking over the Headmistress’s shoulder and more rushed than she’d like, but she thinks the missive looks official enough that it might pass a cursory inspection. She just really hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Students are only starting to drift out of classes as she makes her way through the halls. With her uniform robes and pale complexion nobody looks twice at her. She finds a staircase that leads downward, deeper than she’s been in the Academy, and nobody stops her. She comes up to a grand set of doors in what looks big enough to be an entrance hall, and there are no guards and no lock and nobody to see her slip out. She’s in the open air again and there’s the cobblestone path and the gate to Rexxentrum, and it _cannot_ be this easy but it is and oh, her heart could burst.

“Are you lost, miss?”

It does, just a little.

Jester spins on her heel and comes face to face with a pair of attendants flanking the entrance. _Guarding_ the entrance.

“Oh, yes!” she says, bouncing cheerily on her toes and flashing the most winning grin in her arsenal. “Could you please open the gate? I need to run an errand.”

One of the attendants steps forward. Her dark eyes narrow. “Do you have a Master’s approval for this errand?”

“It’s actually for a Master!” Jester says. Her palms are starting to sweat. This is definitely in plan B territory now. “Master Mirel asked me to deliver something for her.” She’s not even sure she’s pronouncing that right, but the only other option is Ikithon and she’s not going to risk calling his attention even more to their group.

The attendants look at each other. “I didn’t know Master Mirel took pupils.”

 _Shit_. “Well, I mean, it’s kind of a new thing…”

“Clearly.” And with that, the second attendant raises his hand and Jester watches in horror as the grey at her feet shimmers back into a short blue skirt and worn leather boots. “Pretty dress for an errand,” he drawls, and Jester stands rooted to the spot as he advances.

She calls on her magic reserves, fingering the holy symbol in her pocket. _Traveller, just so you know, I might need your help pretty soon._

“Haha,” she says weakly. “Crazy joke, right? Just thought it would be fun, you know, to dress up?”

The second attendant grabs her arm and she flinches away. _Fjord, Caduceus, I changed my mind, you should definitely come find me._ “Got a sweetheart waiting out there, hmm?” Jester shakes her head, trying to wrench his grip away without revealing the full extent of her strength.

He gives her hair a little ruffle and the other attendant fixes him with a glare.

“Knock it off, you’re scaring her.” Scared isn’t quite the right word for how Jester feels. _Hopeless_ is closer to the truth.

The attendant lets go of Jester’s arm and holds his hands up.

“No harm done.”

She rolls her eyes before turning to Jester. “Ignore him. You’re not the first kid to try to sneak out, won’t be the last. We’ll give you one pass since you’re new, but try that again and you’re going straight to the Headmistress, you understand?” Jester nods.

“Totally get it.”

“Send a letter and tell them you’ll meet up on the next festival day, like everyone else. No sweetheart is worth getting expelled over.”

 _If only it was that easy to get thrown out._ “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Without any other recourse at her disposal, Jester finds her feet carrying her over the threshold of the entranceway and back up the stairs, towards the shared bedroom. The halls are already starting to feel too familiar beneath her feet. With nothing else to lose, she mutters the incantation for a message beneath her breath as she walks. It’s like casting into a wet blanket. The spell snuffs in her throat before she can get out a single word.

There’s no gag in her mouth, no bars around her body, no manacles on her legs, but it doesn’t matter. Any illusion she had that the Academy is something other than a prison is gone.

Jester reaches into her pocket for the daisies meant for Yasha, hoping to find some comfort in their fresh scent. But when she pulls them out, the flowers have already withered into brown husks. They must have missed the sunlight as much as her.

***

“Again.”

Fjord swings the Summer’s Dance in a whistling arc above his head, showering the wooden dummy with a curtain of green energy and briny water. “Good. That’s enough.”

He steps back, wiping the sword on his leathers before sheathing it. Nobody’s forced him into robes yet, which he’s grateful for. He’s not certain he has the dexterity to maneuver in that many layers of cloth. “So,” he says, striding over to the examiner, “what’s the verdict?”

The man clicks his tongue. “Curious. I’ve never seen the seawater manifestation before. I’d have guessed an unusual mutation of Genasi blood, but as far as I can tell your parentage belies that.” He makes another note in his scroll. “Something new, then.”

Something new, and doesn’t that take the cake. Even the Empire’s foremost magical experts can’t figure his shit out.

“The Headmistress will be waiting for these results. Stay here while I deliver them. Someone will be in to check on you shortly.”

Fjord drops down behind a desk and watches the man exit the room, holding the account of Fjord’s examination: two hours of failure redeemed by ten minutes of success. Two hours of endlessly drilling somatic forms that failed to produce even the measliest flicker of flame, of spells washing over his body and pinging on nothing arcane, of foci of all sorts being pressed into his hand, _just give this one a try_ , and all of it for nothing. A current of frustration thrashes beneath his skin, quickened by each futile attempt to force his body to produce a spark of magic on its own.

Failing the test might be the very best thing he could do for his freedom, but Fjord can’t seem to quiet the part of himself that aches to believe he might have had a sliver of something special in him, beyond what Uk’otoa gifted: something all his own. Like if the letter of recommendation had been to a less shady institution, he might have been worthy of it.

When he’d brought out the sword, everything had changed. Each stroke of green energy lashed with perfect precision, leaving deep gashes in the torso of the drilling dummy, and he watched the examiner’s expression shift from a pursed frown to something almost impressed. Now _that_ had been satisfying, and even more satisfying for knowing he didn’t even have to touch spells more powerful than a cantrip to do it. _Maybe we don’t want to help them figure us out just yet._ He’s more inclined to agree with Jester on that point after seeing Caleb’s state after just one day spent with Ikithon. Hexes and balguras can wait. He’s got time.

But as he sits in the empty classroom, flanked by neat rows of desks where the Calebs of the world scrawl their recitations and study their scrolls, the pride starts to leech from his skin. It’s Uk’otoa’s strength that earned that final approval from the examiner, not his. And if there’s one thing he learned from his time on the ships, it’s that you always have to _earn_.

Fjord presses a nail to the wood, carves a little tick and then another, and before he knows it the garish smile of Jester’s Tusktooth design is staring up at him. Proof he was here, if nothing else.

After ten minutes, the examiner still hasn’t returned. Fjord’s eyes drift to the teacher’s desk at the front of the classroom, then to the windowless door, then back to the desk.

He’s got good ears and quick feet. Seems worth the risk.

The first drawer he tries opens without resistance. It’s full of standard writing implements: quills, ink, blotting paper, bits of chalk. Its neighbour contains a few editions of some elementary primer. He knows enough to recognize the symbols embedded in the pages as illusion magic, but not enough to glean anything useful from their pages. Maybe Caleb could do something with the tomes, but he’s got no place to hide a book on his person that wouldn’t result in an indiscreet bulge.

The next drawer he tries is locked. It doesn’t budge, and his fingers have never been deft enough to work a lockpick even if he carried one. He stands back for a moment, considering.

The drawer is locked, but the one above it, the one with the books, isn’t. He gives the handle an experimental tug and sure enough, with enough wiggling and yanking he gets the upper drawer mostly out of its frame, enough that he could probably remove it entirely with only minor damage to the wood. He wedges his shoulder into the edge of the desk for leverage as he pulls. Nearly there-

The door whines as it starts to swing open. Fjord grabs one of the primers and shoves the drawer closed with his hip as he hastily stands.

He almost doesn’t recognize the woman who enters in the light of day. Without Ikithon at her side she seems taller, but only just. Her cropped brown hair folds neatly around pointed ears and over the wisps of bluish kohl painted in arcs from her hairline to the edge of her lashes. A subtle pattern of crawling ivy shimmers in the folds of her amethyst robes as she walks between the rows of desks.

“Master Mirel,” he says, and gives her a short bow. She doesn’t pay him the same courtesy.

“Put that away,” she snaps, and for a woman so elegant her timbre has a bite to it that Fjord wasn’t expecting. He shoves the book back into the drawer, a little relieved he doesn’t have to fake any understanding of its content. “Come here.”

He walks around the desk and towards her. She’s a full head shorter than him, but she stares him full in the eye with an intensity better suited to a goliath in battle armour. “Tross says I’m supposed to train you.”

“I would be honoured-”

“I don’t take students,” she says shortly, and before Fjord can respond he feels his legs go out from under him.

He’s kneeling, and he’s not quite sure how he got there. His palms smart from the impact on the stone, and one of his hips radiates a dull jarring pain. Lifting his head is impossible, so he’s forced to listen to Mirel’s words with eyes locked on the delicate swish of her robe’s hem.

“Prove to me that you’re worth my time.” Fjord tries to swallow, tries to nod, but his neck is fixed in place, like some invisible yoke is fastened over his shoulders. “Get up.”

He strains with all his might against the arcane hold, pressing up against the invisible force that presses down across his back. His body doesn’t move. From above, he hears a withering sigh, and then the robe disappears from sight.

Fjord’s vision blurs as pooled sweat begins to drip into his eyes. Even moving his eyelids enough to blink is a monumental effort.

“Let’s review. Somatics: failure. Enchantments: failure. Arcane craft: failure. I’ve seen six year olds score higher than you.” His shoulders start to burn with the strain of struggling against the spell, but it’s like the harder he pushes, the more the invisible chains tighten. His forehead dips, sinking lower towards the floor.

“Are you going to keep laying there? Get up.”

Inside his head, he’s screaming his frustration, hoarse shouts and violent curses, but his voice is frozen in his throat, just like the rest of him. Mirel clucks her tongue. “Like I thought. Waste of my fucking time.”

The magic bears down harder and inch by inch, he concedes. _Just give up_ , it urges. _Why fight the inevitable? Without your blade, you’re powerless. Nothing._

Fjord closes his eyes. His forehead brushes the cold floor.

 _Watching_.

What would his friends think of him if they saw this? Indomitable Beau, tenacious Jester, steady Caduceus, brilliant Caleb, brave Nott, unbroken Yasha, and him: always the one pinned beneath some greater thing, struggling to keep his head above water.

 _Watching_.

 A flash of yellow sparks in the corners of his vision. He wasn’t even Uk’otoa’s first choice. He’s just the vessel for Vandren’s stolen power; even his voice isn’t his own. And what happens when Uk’otoa finds another Avantika, someone more worthy to carry on in his name? He doesn’t want to be some sea god’s thrall, but to be _nothing_ is worse.

On his knees, with his eyes closed, he imagines the curve of tentacles wrapping around his throat.

“Maybe I’ll leave you here. Let the servants sweep you off with the rest of the trash.” Her footsteps fade towards the door.

_Surrender. Let the ocean take you. Isn’t it easier, not to breathe?_

No.

Fuck her. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.

With a snarl he gathers the darkness in his mind and flings it outward. With a twisted vindication he feels the spell holding him drop and when he finally raises his head off the ground Mirel is staring at him through black, pupil-less eyes, her form wreathed in dark tendrils of energy. As the hex takes root beneath her skin, new curves entwine with the painted kohl on her temples, black and pulsing.

Fjord staggers to his feet, chest heaving, and lifts one hand in her direction. The tendrils whip around her body and the classroom begins to fold in on itself until there’s nothing left but darkness, and black flames, and his own ragged breath. There’s barely anything of Mirel now that isn’t consumed by the black energy, and he feeds the darkness a little more, and still feels hungry.

With a snap, the colours of the world re-right themselves, and he’s back in the classroom, the hex banished and his hand still raised in the air. Mirel takes a step toward him, her stern expression widening into a wolfish grin.

“ _There_ you are.”

He bares his teeth, and returns the expression in kind.

***

His guide is very young.

By firbolg standards, Caduceus is young too, but full grown in mind and body at least. It’s hard to conceive of it, all these little ones living away from their homes and their parents. He would not have been brave enough to tread so far on his own, not at such an age.

The path to the library is short, merely a light step or two down a small staircase and a few twists and turns. He feels a pang of regret that they don’t pass by the courtyard again. There were some intriguing varieties of lichen climbing the walls that he’s not encountered before, and although it’s out of season for most wildflowers he knows he spied some beneath the trees. Perhaps on the way back, he’ll request a detour.

Caduceus wanders into the library, leaving his guide at the door to disappear again into the fabric of the school and its winding hallways. He stares with casual interest at the tall shelves with their piecemeal offerings of books and scrolls and portfolios. Some of the volumes are coated with a film of dust, left untouched by any hand for who knows how long, and others bear the cracked spines of too many years of heavy use.

Realizing that the rows of shelves go on for a long while and he has no real idea where to begin, he nods to a creature perusing the closest one. “Hello.”

They turn to look at him, green eyes widening, and Caduceus notes the nubs of small tusks poking between their lips. An orcish child. That’s different. He drops down on one knee to bring himself a little closer to the nervous face of his new acquaintance. “Can you tell me how to find Mister Elgon?”

The green eyes widen further, and the child takes a step back, clutching a book to their chest. Wordlessly, they point to the rows farther towards the back.

“Thank you for your time,” he says, standing, and the child shrinks back into the shelf as he passes. Since leaving his home, he’s learned that his size is intimidating to those unaccustomed to it. It’s useful in many situations, but he finds it troubling that it would frighten a child simply to be near him. Caduceus redoubles his intentions to visit the courtyard. Perhaps if next time he has a flower to give, it will help smooth the interaction.

The shelves end eventually, opening up into an expanse of broad tables where students huddle behind stacks of books and over loose leaves of paper. He chooses a group of older children to ask this time, and they point him towards a cordoned off section to the right. Unlike the rest of the library – tidy and spacious – the new collection is housed behind a gate of iron bars and cluttered with mismatched shelves that narrow into a dense thicket, seemingly untouched by the light of the orbs that hang high above the common area. He wanders up to the gate, peering through the bars into the gloom.  

“Hello?” he calls out. “Mister Elgon?”

“ _Master_ ,” comes the immediate correction, a few rows down from where he stands. Caduceus follows the fence in the voice’s direction. “Not in the ground yet. Till then, I’m a Master.”

“Alright,” says Caduceus, then because it seems polite, offers, “Caduceus. Or Clay, if you prefer.”

“You a Master, or a Mister?” comes the voice again, closer this time.

“Mister, I think,” Caduceus says. “I was told you were expecting me.”

He spots a small flurry of movement between the empty spaces of the nearest shelf, and then a wheeled ladder swings around the corner and into the light. A bespectacled halfling, with a shock of hair so white it’s almost translucent, hangs from the top rung. In the gnarled hand that doesn’t clutch the ladder he holds a small spyglass. “Right,” Elgon says slowly, like one waking from a deep dream. His accent has a lilt to it, not unlike Caleb’s, but roughened and faded with age. “I do remember something of that, now that I think on it.” He hops down from the ladder and steps up to the bars, putting the spyglass to his eye to peer up at Caduceus. “You’re a tall one.”

Caduceus inclines his head, then sinks back to one knee. “Better,” Elgon approves, and set the spyglass into a little pouch on his hip. “What was I meant to do with you again?”

“I’m not really sure,” he says pleasantly. “I don’t know if the Headmistress knew what to do with me either.”

Elgon blinks owlishly. “Headmistress… oh, that’s right. The one who never comes down here,” he says with a note of disapproval. “Well, make yourself useful and give me a hand with the shelving. One of us will figure it out eventually.” He walks over to the gate and unlocks it with a set of rusty keys from another pouch. Caduceus follows him into the enclosure and between the shelves to a cart filled with haphazard piles of books.

“Just put them where the numbers say.”

The process of shelving is methodical in a way that Caduceus finds agreeable. It reminds him of when he and his mother would walk through the garden of headstones and plan for new arrivals, long before the vines came and began to break up the edges of their careful work. Each family and generation was housed in its proper place, with spaces to fill as new members joined their parents and grandparents, and it was all good and orderly.

They begin the task separately, but it’s not long before Elgon abandons his spyglass and ladder in favour of handing Caduceus any books destined for a higher shelf, and together they make steady progress.

“I haven’t had a _waldkind_ visit before,” Elgon murmurs, so soft that Caduceus is almost certain the words aren’t meant for him. “Headmaster Valorna wouldn’t have allowed it, but it’s Tross now, isn’t it? Strange times…”

“How long have you tended the library?” Caduceus asks. Elgon startles at the question and pushes his glasses back up onto his nose.

“Oh, forty years now? Since I was a younger man.” He hands Caduceus another book, something old with glittering gold lettering. “I was a researcher, travelled the continents and back, and then a teacher, but that was never my calling. Now I spend my days reading and chronicling, and that’s sufficient for me.” He nudges Caduceus to remind him that he’s meant to be placing the book somewhere, not perusing its illustrated cover. “And you, Mister Caduceus Clay? I didn’t think many of your kind left the forest. What brought you here to the Academy?”

Caduceus considers his answer carefully, but Elgon doesn’t seem to mind him taking his time. It’s a nice change of pace from the usual conversations, the ones that fly on past before he can choose his words. “The world where I grew up was very small. I’m beginning to understand there’s much more of it beyond what I knew. I’m hoping to understand it all a little better.”

“Well then,” Elgon says, and pats Caduceus lightly on the knee. “I think we’ll get along fine.”

\---

They end up walking to the courtyard together after the day’s work is done, neither quite ready to leave the other’s company. Caduceus finds he quite likes the old man and his absentminded way of speaking, and Elgon seems equally happy to have someone interested in his stories, most of which involve the history of the Academy. They make an odd pair – hunched as he is, Elgon barely reaches Caduceus’s thigh, and he has to remember to take very small steps so the halfling can keep pace – but it feels very right to Caduceus.

“Do you see all the white stone tiles?” Elgon asks as they round a corner. The scent of fresh air is wafting from somewhere nearby. They must be getting close. “Didn’t used to be like that. For a while everything was black onyx. Very depressing. But then some teacher visited Tal’Dorei and came back raving about a special stone that was supposed to amplify magical properties. Took almost two years to import and install it all. Major headache for everyone involved, and in the end I don’t think it amounted to much, not that these things ever do. And wouldn’t you know, five years later that same teacher got tossed out – probably had more to do with the necromancy than wasting the school’s money – but at least the corridors are a little brighter.”

Caduceus nods along, content to listen. Maybe tomorrow he’ll ask Elgon to show him Tal’Dorei on a map. He’s sure he’s heard the name before, but never had a reason to find out where or what it was.  

By the time they emerge into the colonnade along the courtyard’s edge, the sun is almost setting, casting a cool sort of twilight upon the boughs of trees that stretch up near to the roof of the second story. The railings of the corridors above are just high enough that those on the first level can barely see the crest of bobbing heads, lending the enclosure an air of privacy, if not the reality of it.  

“Now it’s your turn to teach me, Mister Clay.” Caduceus steps out onto the grass, relishing the plushness beneath his feet. Would it be odd to remove his boots? Flowers grow up in little patches all around and he takes care not to tread on them as he strides towards the trees. Elgon follows him beneath the shadow of the leaves, stepping into the imprints of his larger feet.

Caduceus bends down to pluck a primrose from between the roots of a particularly old deciduous tree. He twirls the white flower between his fingers. “Now, this is peculiar. It’s near to winter, isn’t it?”

It takes Elgon a minute to take stock of the seasons. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Where I come from, these only bloom in spring.” He sets the flower down gently by its brethren. “I’d very much like to meet your gardener.”

Elgon shrugs. “Wouldn’t know them. Never seen someone come in to tend it, but I don’t spend much time outdoors. Bad for the books.” He steps up to join Caduceus and pulls out his spyglass, peering up at the canopy of leaves above, then down to the bed of primroses. “Funny. I never really bothered looking at the flowers, before.”

Caduceus smiles. “Most people don’t.”

The two of them settle down into the crooks of the roots, and Caduceus spends some time explaining the names of all the flowers and moss and lichen in the garden and their medicinal properties, and the conversation is so engaging that he barely notices Elgon dropping off until he feels the deep rumbling of snores at his side.

The sun is fully set now, and Jester and Fjord may be wondering where he is. Still, he spends a few minutes to thank the Wildmother for showing him this garden, and to ask for her guidance for the days ahead.

The warmth of harmony and love he’s come to expect from her presence never blooms.

Caduceus opens his eyes, confused. The courtyard is full of lively, beautiful flora. He can’t see any reason she wouldn’t be here.

After checking to make sure Elgon is still fast asleep, Caduceus places his hands on the roots of the tree, infusing a little magic into his palms as he asks the plants when the Wildmother last visited.

The feeling of wrongness cuts through his chest and he doubles over with a gasp, releasing his hold on the spell. Hesitantly, both fearing the answer and needing to be certain, he reaches out again. This time he’s prepared, and can hold on a little longer through the awful sickness rising in his throat, just long enough to be sure. He trusts what he feels over what his eyes tell him.

Every tree, every flower, every blade of grass, every root that breaks past the soil and every tendril of lichen that drifts gently in the evening breeze… every last plant in the courtyard is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, considering I was laid up sick for most of this weekend, I don't feel so bad about being a day late with this update. And it's pretty long to boot! I was debating whether to split it into separate chapters, but neither Fjord nor Caduceus's segments felt hefty enough on their own.
> 
> Next up, a brief check-in with Beau, and then finally, FINALLY we'll get to that long-awaited Yasha chapter :D (I'm as excited as you guys, trust me.)


	6. Solitude (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau sees a bit more of Rexxentrum and starts to make a plan.

To Beau’s frustration, it takes asking three separate strangers for directions and nearly two hours before she finds herself back on the stoop of the Lion’s Rest Inn.

She’s generally good at keeping her bearings. She’s better than this bumbling tourist act, that’s for sure. But even now that the headache’s passed, a lingering malaise remains – born of hunger or spent tears or exhaustion or some combination of the three – that leaves her dizzy on her feet, makes it hard to hold onto the patterns of _left, right, right, straight, left_ that should be guiding her true.

In her defence, she’d figured Caleb would be around to direct them back to the inn after they were done scouting the Academy. There had been so many other interesting things to pay attention to, at the time.

Scattered human patrons sip watered ale or doze away their midday woes at a collection of communal tables, and Beau’s stomach sinks as she scans the paltry daytime crowd and catches no hint of hunched black hoods or nervous yellow eyes. It was too much to hope for, that Nott would be here, waiting for someone to return, but the confirmation of her absence still burns through what little was left of Beau’s meagre optimism. Nobody looks up as she stomps between the tables towards the stairs to the second floor.

“Hey!”

The innkeeper calls out as she passes the bar but she ignores him, taking the stairs two at a time till she’s on the landing, and then she’s throwing the doors open to the first of the three rooms the Nein had rented for the week.

Empty. The beds meant for Caduceus and Fjord are still made up in cheap linen, untouched. _Of course it’s empty, idiot._ Who was she expecting to see?

Beau steps back out and walks to the end of the hall. The stairs at her back creak under the weight of heavier, slower footsteps, and she ignores that too.

The second room is smaller than the first, with only one bed tucked into a corner: Nott and Caleb’s. They’d all concluded it was the best of the three to sit and plan without prying ears, for all the good it did them. Beau drops to her knees and peeks a head under the bed, but no glowing eyes lurk in the dust beneath. She takes the time to throw her fist against the wooden bedframe before pushing herself back onto her feet and heading across the hall to the last room. Gingerly, Beau pushes the door open.

Light streams in patchwork squares through grimy windowpanes onto the bed she never got the chance to sleep in – bigger than Caleb and Nott’s, but not by much. This room is the only one they could get with a window. That’s why Jester chose it.  

Most of the blankets are on the floor, arranged into a haphazard nest of weighty cloth. Jester tried so hard to tell Yasha, to convince her that there was space for all three of them if they squeezed, and Beau had wanted to be the one to make the offer but every time she opened her mouth the words got caught in her throat. The ask was too selfish, coming from her. Besides, if she insisted and Yasha said yes, she’d have had no one to blame but herself for the restless sleep that followed.

(It was stupid to worry. Jester would have insisted on taking the middle anyway, and Beau’s back wouldn’t have had to ache from holding still throughout the night, arms locked and knees drawn up so no matter how Yasha tossed and turned, their limbs would never touch.)

Beau closes the door and lowers herself onto the bare sheets. The end of a stalk of hay pushes through the ripped corner of one of the pillows and she plucks at it, presses the sharp tip to her thumb as she stares at the ceiling.

A hint of green peeks out from beneath the other pillow. Nonplussed, Beau grabs the edge and pulls.

It’s Jester’s cloak, rumpled and stuck through with little nibs of hay, apparently forgotten in their eagerness to explore. The hood still smells like lavender oil. Beau twists her fist into the soft cotton and tries to ignore the way her eyes are burning again.  

Someone bangs on the door and she jumps, hastily crushing the cloak beneath the sheets. “One second, holy shit, _alright!_ ”

Beau flings open the door to the red face of the innkeeper, puffing and glowering. “Didn’t hear me calling, huh?”

“Nope, sorry,” Beau drawls. “Inner ear condition.” She puts on her best lazy grin and hopes to Ioun that her red eyes look more like the remnants of a crazy night out and not the aftermath of what her mother would tactfully call ‘a spell’.

( _-weeping like a child of two, honestly, Beauregard, you’re too old for hysterics, if your_ father _saw-_ )

“Sure. Look, don’t make me chase you around. Just need to know if you lot were still going to be needing those rooms.”

 _Just the one,_ she almost says, but she knows the words will come out too bitter, too affected, and fuck if she’s going to let this asshole be the latest witness to her all-too-public breakdown. Avoiding the question is a much cleaner strategy. “Hey, did a gnome girl come by last night? Black hair, freckles?”

The man shoots her a frustrated glare. “What? No. Not that I saw, and I think I’d remember. Don’t get many gnomes round here.” He squints past her at the mess of blankets on the floor and his expression darkens further. “Not that she would be the strangest of your lot, that I remember.” He looks Beau up and down, and his eyes narrow as he moves further into the doorway. “I never did ask. What was your group’s business here in Rexxentrum?”

Many things dawn on Beau in rapid succession: that the common room was nearly deserted, that at this time of day it’s probably just the two of them on the floor, and that the man is blocking the only exit to the room.

“What’s that got to do with you?” she spits, and she should be staying calm and soothing his suspicions but she can’t keep the venom out of her voice any more than she can keep her hands from itching towards the staff at her back. He’s bulky, but she’s quick. _Just give me a reason, asshole._

“It’s my business to know who stays under my roof. A bunch of strange folk, obvious out-of-towners, show up and order rooms they don’t sleep in? Sounds like something the Crownsguard might be interested in hearing about.”

“You threatening me?” Beau growls, and he snaps right back, pressing his knuckles into the doorframe.

“Girl, I’m not looking to start trouble. I’ve got enough as it is nowadays, with the soldiers and the war tax and the Teeth starting shit on my back doorstep. This new Rexxentrum is pretty fucking far from the city I grew up in. But just know, there’s a lot of money out there for reporting suspicious activity, and not much in tenants who don’t pay their due. All I want to know is if I can rent the rooms out.” He inclines his head. “Seems like the best _deal_ for all of us.”

They’re already paid up for the week. The rooms are theirs, whether they sleep in them or not. It’s clear-cut extortion and Beau should know, she’s run far more inventive rackets than this small-time shit, but getting dogged by Crownsguard with probing questions is the last thing she needs.

Given the choice, she’d rather just cut the loss and split entirely, but if she goes there’s no way for Nott to find her, and in a city this big there’s no chance she’ll manage the reverse on her own.

She should have grilled Caleb and Nott more on their schemes, should have pressed harder, should have known one would come back to bite them after the _Modern Literature_ fiasco. Without any better information, she’s got no choice but to stay put.

 _(Puff of Smoke_ , step one: ‘Nott gets the haversack to safety’. For all Beau knows, step two is ‘Nott runs for Nicodranas and doesn’t look back’.)

“I’m keeping this one,” she says, muscle in her jaw working. “Do what you want with the other two.”

(Maybe Nott’s long gone, and she’s all that’s left.)

The innkeeper steps back with a satisfied smirk. “Pleasure doing business, ma’am.”

“Fuck you.” Beau slams the door in his face.

She waits until she hears the staircase creak again before letting her shoulders droop and flopping back onto the bed. The ceiling doesn’t hold any more answers than it did before.

What the hell is she supposed to do, out here on her own? She’s got no contacts in the city, no allies on her side, no information, no plan. Even though she knows where Jester and Fjord and Caduceus are she can’t contact them, hasn’t got the skill to sneak in and break them out, and Caleb and Yasha are _gone_ and it’s just her and an entire city bent on keeping her from them. At least with the Iron Shepherds she had Nott and Caleb and _fuck,_ Molly, and that was enough to give her at least a smidgen of hope, even if she hadn’t trusted them half as well at the time.

Beau lets out a long, low sigh, replaying the events of the morning and searching for the clue she missed, the key that would have gotten them all out safe and sound, instead of just her. What would Molly have done?

It’s been a long time since she’s asked herself that question. Would he would have had a prettier story than Beau’s for the Headmistress? Spun some elaborate yarn, been more than himself for long enough to convince her they weren’t worth the trouble and waltzed the whole party right out the front gate? Four months ago, she might have believed that. But time has softened the golden sheen around Molly’s memory, and even she can admit his graceful lies wouldn’t have been enough. They were fucked from the start.

Something lumpy starts to dig into the small of her back, the pressure growing more uncomfortable by the second. Beau reaches beneath the sheets for the protrusion and pulls out the wrinkled cloak. After a pointless glance towards the door, she draws it over her chest and shoulders, pulling the fabric up beneath her chin.

Beau doesn’t smell lavender anymore. She just smells Jester. She turns her head and sees her blue hair spread across the pillowcase and her chest rising and falling in time with the thud of Beau’s heartbeat, a ghost not yet banished from the bed.

(Sometimes, when she’s very tired or very homesick, Jester will ask to hold her hand under the covers. She’d never admit it, but it feels better than sex, that someone wants to touch her without wanting anything in return. Like she’s something worth being close to.)

They’re all fucked, probably, and she wishes she could find the strength for a less selfish reason, but she breathes in, _one two three,_ and forces herself to sit up, to rub her eyes and brush off her clothes and walk towards the door with her staff in one hand and the cloak in the other. If she’s the last one left, then she’s going to fight until she’s got everyone back at her side, or until she’s gone too.

(Because that’s what Molly would have done.)

(Because she can’t go back to a life where she never gets to hold Jester’s hand again, never wakes to Yasha’s tangled hair and shining eyes, never laughs at Fjord and Nott’s spats or tastes Caduceus’s awful tea or feels Caleb lay all his vulnerability in a hand on her shoulder.)

Because that’s what she has to do.

The innkeeper is behind the bar by the time she makes her way downstairs. His eyes widen as she marches straight up to the edge and catches his collar with her fist, yanking him close enough that flecks of her spit land in his moustache as she hisses, “If that gnome girl comes in while I’m gone, you tell her that Beau wants to talk. I’ll even throw in a gold, for your _trouble_. Got it?”

She clenches the fist, tightening the collar until his face starts to purple and for the first time, he looks frightened of her. Good. He should be. She’s got enough fury beneath her skin to level a hundred of him. “Got it,” he chokes out.

“Great,” she says with a sneer and shoves him back. “Pleasure doing business.”

A couple of the patrons stare up from their drinks as she strides by. She pulls Jester’s cloak over her own as she leaves, snaps the clasp closed and pulls up the hood.

No more tears. She’s got shit to do.

\---

First order of business: a map. Tracy gets a lot of mileage with the local merchants, which gets her directions to a little public library that has just what she needs. Sure, it’s got nothing on the Archive, but she’s not here to browse the vast histories of the world. Simple will do fine.

The hand drawn city map isn’t what you’d call _new_ – the vellum is yellowed at the edges and moth-eaten despite its glass covering – but it’s got the biggest landmarks in Zadash noted in red ink with helpful, if outdated, footnotes and that’s all she really needs to re-orient herself. The world feels a little more manageable.

As her finger lights on a familiar emblem, right smack dab in the center of the map because _of course_ it is, she searches her bag with her other hand for something to scribble notes with. It comes out with nothing but lint and stray ball bearings. In hindsight, relying as a group on the haversack as the main container to hold all their worldly possessions was maybe not the smartest move. At least fetching stationary isn’t too far off from her second order of business.

If there’s one thing she’s missed about big city life, it’s how easy it is to find particular convenient services. She doesn’t have to travel far before she spotting a postmaster at her booth, who sells Beau a basic set of paper and ink for mere coppers. The deal seems generous until Beau clocks the sign posted over the stack of cages at the booth’s rear, advertising a jay’s flight at an ungodly price per mile. Delivery by cart is exponentially cheaper, but if there’s one thing Beau hasn’t got, it’s time.

Or, as of now, much money either, and she’ll have to go back to pay the stables to keep the horses on at some point too but that’s a problem for future Beau. If they’re still stuck here by the time their lease runs out, she’s going to have bigger things to worry about.

After ten minutes of writing and scratching out and re-writing, Beau hands over two letters, one bound for Bladegarden and the other for Zadash. As the postmaster moves towards the back to start opening cages, another thought occurs to her. “Wait, shit, one second.”

Beau bends over the counter and hastily scrawls a third note while the postmaster taps her foot. She’s scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point, but any idea is better than the nothing she had this morning. “Mark this one for the Lavish Chateau, in Nicodranas.”

“Menagerie Coast?”

“Yup.”

“That’s going to cost you, dearie.”

And it does, nearly all of what’s left in Beau’s purse. She’s not sure she could afford to rent a new room now even if she wanted to, and once the last of the money’s spent she’s got nothing to replace it with, unless she decides to take up pickpocketing in her spare time.

 _Where’s Nott when you need her?_ The joke isn’t even funny in her own head.

The postmaster places each of the messages into a tube attached to a jay’s leg, and Beau watches as she thrusts the birds into the sky one by one. The brief reprieve of purposefulness ebbs as the birds drift higher and higher, and she finds the melancholy creeping back into her bones.

It hurts to admit it to herself, especially after handing over that much coin, but she can’t help but wonder if there was any point at all to sending the first two letters. Marion at least can probably be trusted to intercede if she can, for her daughter’s sake, but it’s not like Dairon or the Archive have really given a damn about Beau’s troubles before, and she knows her messy words reeked of desperation more than the calm sureness expected of a monk at her level. All she’s proven so far is that she can’t function on her own. Not exactly confidence-inspiring, especially not with the significance of what she’s asking.

The second jay lingers in sight longer than the other two, wheeling in circled flight above the main street before lighting on the edge of the southern wall. Though it’s too far to catch the shape of the notes, Beau watches, transfixed, as the bird opens its beak and begins to sing: a farewell to its departed brethren, or a cry of joy to be free from its cage at last, she can’t begin to tell.  

( _Why would they help, the same monks who held you down and bound your hands when you were young and terrified and screaming for your parents, for_ someone _to rescue you?_ )

(She has to try. She has to, because there’s nobody else.)

The jay eventually lifts off onto the breeze and disappears towards the horizon, and Beau turns away from the gates and lets her feet carry her deeper within the city, and it’s easy to move swiftly through the crowd on her own, and she focuses on that and nothing more.

The afternoon light finds Beau on the broad steps of her third and final order of business. Under the shadow of the story-high crest emblazoned on the architrave, she stares up at the grand columns and plush red hangings of the seat of the Dwendalian government, and takes a deep breath.

She’s no diplomat, no sweet tongued liar, no songbird with pretty words to entice and beguile. But if she shouts long enough and loud enough, someone will have to hear her.

And that? That, she can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly debated where to cut this chapter - there's actually about 3000 more words of it that'll be the start of the next Beau POV section, but it didn't fit quite right here. So hopefully that speeds up a future update! In the meantime, thanks for your patience on this one. (It's been a crazy two weeks for me. Working >40hrs/week while trying to write everything running around in my brain is an adventure, let me tell you.)
> 
> You all know who's finally getting her turn next, right? (*whispers dramatically* yashaaaaaaaaa)


	7. Solitude (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yasha wakes in a cell and learns exactly how far Cerberus Assembly hospitality extends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: implied torture, sensory deprivation

_Morning waits for you, Orphanmaker. You have slept long enough._

_Wake._

Yasha stirs with the desperate gasp of one rising from deep water. She opens her eyes and finds the world empty, shapeless. She lifts her arms but they don’t move, trapped under the weight of something warm and heavy covering her body, holding her down. Panic mounting, she writhes, kicking her legs and twisting her torso until the weight shifts, and her whole body tilts into nothingness.

The world comes back in the bursting pain of something hard hitting her shoulder, something sharp splitting her side down the middle. The impact knocks the air out of her lungs, but she grits her teeth and pushes out with her feet until the last of the weight comes away. Panting, facedown and disoriented in a pool of darkness, she presses the hands she cannot see to the ground and starts to crawl. The floor is rough against her palms, dipping in uneven squares, and it feels of stone but has none of stone’s coldness. Her fingers begin to burn with creeping, insistent heat if she leaves them too long in one place.

She keeps moving, instinct propelling her from anything that confines, and when she gathers the strength to lift her head she spies a break in the darkness: a tiny line of dim yellow light, somewhere far off and above. It gives her purpose. She moves faster.

The line of light grows larger as she crawls, and as her eyes soak in the faint glow the room begins to take on a vague shape. It’s enough to spot the incoming wall before her head knocks into it, and with something to brace against she manages to claw her way up into a standing position. The steps that follow are hesitant, each foot placed carefully before committing weight. The threat of a chasm looms heavy in her mind: some dark hole just beyond the reach of the light, waiting for an errant wanderer to swallow up.

Her fingers grasp at the line and catch the edge of iron, and Yasha clings to the bare purchase and stumbles forward till her face is pressed to it, drunk off the promise of an end to the darkness. Her eyes water at the sudden change in illumination but she blinks until her vision focuses, and finds herself staring down the length of a long hallway. She blinks again and the details sharpen, revealing a stone passage lit by dim braziers that turns abruptly after twenty feet or so, veering off to the left. Empty.

Yasha runs her hands over the door. It feels as iron should: cold and hard and impersonal.

“Hello?”

Her voice echoes out into the hall, but there’s no reply, no trace of movement. “Hello?” she calls again, and slams a fist into the door. The clang fades. Silence.

Yasha takes a step back, assessing. The features of the little room materialize in ghostly grey outline as she turns and forces her eyes to focus: a cot in the corner, a metal table affixed to one wall, a simple chair in the centre of the room. She walks to the chair first and gives it an experimental nudge with her foot. Stuck. She drops to the ground and feels around the legs with her fingers. They find the shape of rounded bolts and brackets, anchoring the chair to the stone below.

The other furniture is of much the same construction. All hard iron, all bolted to the floor. Even heaving with all her strength, Yasha cannot move the cot away from the wall or shift the chair from its position. The only thing left unsecured is a pile of blankets tangled on the floor, but those she leaves alone. The room is already too warm for her comfort.

The Magician’s Judge is gone, as are her set of curved hunting knives and the roped belt at her waist that held her satchel. Unsurprising. Worrisome.

There’s no way to tell how long she’s been asleep, and her throat constricts at the thought that she might have lost days to the darkness.

What does she remember? A fight in an alley, and a man. He was familiar – yes, the man from Zadash, who asked her why she was so far from home, who wanted to speak to her of Xhorhas. She hadn’t recognized him in the moment, but she remembers now. He was the man who Caleb spoke of with such fear, soft over the rushing of the river. She remembers that too.

Where are the others?

Not here. Not here.

She paces the length of the room like a tigress, testing the furniture again, trying to keep the panic at bay. Nothing moves. She shouts her frustration at the door. Nobody answers.

The hours pass, too many to count, and when the sound of footsteps finally breaks the silence Yasha barely notices amongst all the other imagined noises in her head. But she quickens to the tapping as it grows louder, closer, and she dashes forward and presses her back to the wall by the door’s side, muscles tight and thrumming and ready to strike.

The lock turns with a gentle _click_ , and she plants one foot and braces for the swing. The slit of light grows dark, obscured by whatever figure lurks behind the door. A singular grey eye lowers to greet her own.

“Sit.”

Yasha straightens from her crouch. Her fists drop to her sides as the _rightness_ of the command washes over her, and though her blood still sings for violence she knows with absolute certainty that seated in the chair is the best place for her to be.

The door creaks open at her back, casting a wide swath of light across the floor and illuminating the chair as she turns and sits. The moment her legs touch the cold iron the compulsion fades, but before she can do anything her limbs lock in place and she cannot move, cannot speak, cannot scream, cannot do anything but stare up at the figure at the door. Backlit by the hall, he is nothing more than a shadow of a man, tall and looming and still.

“Hello, Yasha.” She knows the voice, knows the shape of the man and the things he’s done. He lifts a hand and the metal beneath her arms begins to shift. The chair warps and bends, sprouting thick tendrils that wrap round and round her limbs and trap her in a serpent’s coil of twisted iron. Only once the metal stills does the strength return to her body. “Though I deeply apologize for the circumstances, it _is_ good to see you again.”

Yasha snarls, gnashing at the air as she strains against the bonds but the hold is too tight and the iron too strong.

The door swings shut, and for a moment Yasha is cast into darkness again, before a single bright orb floats into existence before her eyes and raises up. The new light reveals a familiar face: yellowed teeth and pleasant smile. The asp poised for the strike.

“I’m very glad that we finally have the chance to talk.”

\---

There are questions, so many questions. The whole world becomes questions, a jumble of sounds that lose all meaning as the minutes drift by. _Who are you, Yasha? What have you seen? Why did you leave Xhorhas? What do you know of the spreading darkness? Who are you, really?_

He is calm. Gentle, even. He speaks as an intercedent, a kindly elder. He keeps up the illusion for many hours, for many rounds of questions. Yasha keeps silent.

When her refusals grow tiresome, there is pain too, of course. There is always pain. She expects it. She welcomes it. It reminds her that she is alive, that there are parts of her that live outside the darkness, and more than that, it stokes the frenzy simmering in her veins.

He works many spells that whisper sweet lies – _this man is a friend, this man can be trusted, this man wants only to help you_ – and nothing can penetrate the shield of her hate. Every phantom blade and burning hand lends her strength, and over the hours of questioning, she learns that to provoke is to endure, and he learns _nothing_.

There are moments when he almost breaks through. A tiny slip, a flinch, an errant thought, and the man leans closer. _Oh, that’s interesting._ His mouth moves and doesn’t, and the shape of words she did not speak form on his lips. ( _Where are my friends? Are they safe?)_ She is too slow to call back the traces of blue before her vision fills with Jester’s shining smile, the twinkle in Caleb’s eye, the ribbons in Beau’s hair. _You need only answer my questions. I’ll bring you to them._ She banishes the vision and focuses on the lingering pain. The rage returns, and she pushes the fingers from her mind.

It begins again.

And again.

His patience wears thin. There are less questions now, and more pain.

And then the man tilts his head, tuned some unseen voice, and he stands, and there are no more questions at all.

“You are a reasonable woman. You need only speak and this unnecessary suffering will end. Consider my words, Yasha.” And then he’s gone, and Yasha is left bound to the chair, and all she can think through the immense exhaustion as the rage finally leaves her body is that the man is a fool, to think that there is suffering he could impart that compares to what she’s already survived.

The orb of light dissipates as the door closes, and the room sinks again into darkness, and she slips into the uneasy escape of sleep.

\---

Yasha dreams of rain, buffeting the edge of a coastline far from familiar shores, and though dreams like this fill her with terror on more nights than most, tonight the thunder is a comfort. The quiet awe of the Stormlord’s terrible presence fills her heart, and she offers all her fear to him, and he fashions lightning from the keening in her chest.

She wakes to the sound of iron creaking and she savours the electricity on her tongue, ready to fight all the harder, but this time it’s not Trent Ikithon at the door. Instead, two figures enter. One holds a torch that flickers with a mundane glow, flames reflecting against black leather armor, plain and unadorned. The other holds a tray with a bowl and a cup. “Who are you?” Yasha croaks out. Neither respond.

The first moves to stands by the door, holding the torch high, while the second sets the tray on the table and picks up the cup.

“Drink,” he says, and fingers thread through her hair as he tips her head back and presses the cup to her lips. Her throat is rough from thirst but she presses her lips closed.

“Drink,” he says again, and moves his hand from her hair to her nose.

Yasha lurches forward, slamming her forehead into the hand that holds the cup. It clatters to the stone and splashes its contents on the other man’s feet.

She expects a curse, or a slap, but the man simply stares at the puddle for a long moment, as though confused how the water ended up on the floor, before returning to the table and picking up the bowl.

“Eat,” he says in the same flat tone, and kneels beside her chair with a spoon outstretched.

The scent of meat and gravy pervades Yasha’s senses, hot and pungent, and a beast awakens in her stomach and begins to gnaw at itself. She turns her head away from the offering. Yasha knows her body, knows that the hunger would be far worse if she’d gone longer than a day without food. That’s good. That’s something she didn’t know before. Something to hold onto.

This time, the second man holds her hair while the first reaches toward her nose, but she’s ready for it. She snaps at the fingers, feral and wild, and the man shies away with something like fear reflected in his torchlit eyes before his expression goes blank again. The bowl tips and spills onto her knee, sending sludge trickling down into her boot. It feels like a victory, however small. Well worth the pain that is sure to follow.

And yet... there is no punishment. The man stands and wipes his slimy hands on his trousers and the other releases her hair. They pick up the fallen bowl and cup and place them back on the tray, then turn and leave without another word. As they pass, Yasha catches the glint of short silver blades crisscrossed in each of their belts.

By the time the door closes and the light disappears once more, the puddle of water has already evaporated into little wisps of steam.

She cannot track the passage of hours, but after a time her body grows tired again, and she drifts into a restless sleep. Wakefulness comes again with no hint of life from outside the cell, and her back aches from being held in the same position for so long. The spilled stew begins to stink in the warm air and if there was anything to bring up Yasha might have retched. The beast of her hunger gnaws more insistently, begging for something to fill the void. She swallows spit to give it something to work on and lays her head back, and waits.

She sings to herself to pass the time, and to keep the shapeless darkness at bay. At first, it’s the chant of the hunters, the only song she knew as a child, but that she exhausts quickly and soon she finds herself muttering half-formed verses of the shanties Avantika’s crew sang when the seas were pleasant. If she imagines hard enough, she can taste the sea salt on the air. When all those are gone too, she mouths the lyrics to the little ditties that Jester sometimes hums under her breath, and reminds herself of all the reasons to survive.

When Ikithon at last returns, she speaks before he has a chance to.

“You should let me go.” Her bottom lip cracks, and a warm trickle of blood runs down her chin. She smiles through red-soaked teeth.

“Oh?” he says, then sneers as he turns up his nose at the mess by her feet. With a quick flick of his fingers, the rancid stew vanishes. “Why’s that?”

“Others have tried to hold me before. It did not go well for them.”

“I see. What happened to the others?”

“My friends.”

He looks at her, but silhouetted in the doorframe she can’t judge his expression. “And your friends? They will come for you?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “They will.”

He places his hands on the bindings at her wrists and leans in, closer and closer, till she can smell his sour breath mingled with the taste of blood. “The monk, the one you were with in Zadash? Your… what was her word? _Handler_?” He couches the words in soft tones, like a parent breaking a disappointment to their child. “A lively girl. As I understand it, she was given the option to stay. To wait for you. She left by her own choice.”

Beau would not just abandon her. Of _anyone_ in the Nein, Beau would not abandon her.

(Maybe not now. Maybe not here. But in the end, whether they mean to or not, people always...)

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your prerogative. It doesn’t change the reality of the place you’re in. Help me, Yasha. Help me to end this. There is nothing about this situation that I enjoy.”

She spits in his face.

The interrogation begins again.

Now she knows exactly what to expect it’s easy to submerse herself in the rage. Against Ikithon. Against Lorenzo. Against her tribe. There is so much in the world to be angry at. His frustration comes quicker this time, and so does the pain.

“I will not ask again.”

_And yet you haven’t killed me. So what else is there to do?_

The world begins to shutter in and out of focus, each moment stuttering like she’s jumped past the two before and her consciousness starts to fade, and only then do the questions end. Ikithon stands and surveys her, and she can barely gather the strength to raise her head from where it’s lolled to her shoulder.

“Well, it seems we have nothing to discuss. How very... unfortunate. I think you’ll find the alternative less pleasant than my company.” The pleasant edge of his voice is keen with barely concealed anger. “This is goodbye, Yasha.”

“Goodbye,” she echoes, and her voice is wrung out but she looks him in the eye and does not flinch.

He turns back one more time, halfway out the door, his thin mouth curving into a tight smile, any trace of the kindly veneer long evaporated.

“You should make sure to eat and drink something. It won’t do to have you wasting away before we find a use for you.”

Even as her vision goes dark and her mind fuzzy, it strikes her as an odd final comment. Why wouldn’t she eat or drink? She needs her strength, now more than ever. It would be foolish to refuse what’s offered.

The next time the silent men come with their food and water, she swallows without complaint.

\---

There are no more sessions with Ikithon. There are no more visits. There is nothing at all but the darkness and the seeds of doubt sprouting amidst the forest of the iron bonds.

They’ll come for her.

(No messages from Jester.)

They have before. They will again.

(The last time, she’d trusted only Molly, and he was the only one who didn’t come back.)

If they haven’t yet, it’s because something is stopping them. She has to be patient.

The line of light becomes the whole world, the one constant. She sleeps in short bursts, and wakes to find the line burned behind her eyes. Occasionally she thinks she hears the skittering of rats in the walls, but when she turns her head it’s impossible to tell whether the flickering shapes are little claws and whiskers or just a fractured afterimage of the line. Or perhaps the sound means nothing at all, and it’s just her own mind playing tricks. It wouldn’t be the first she’s dreamt of impossible comforts.

By the time the room floods again with painful brightness, she might have welcomed Ikithon, if only for the relief of hearing a familiar  voice. But it’s not him. It’s a woman she doesn’t recognize, with black and green robes and the glitter of jewels at her throat, and she looks over Yasha like a cat regards a centipede, with curiousity and disdain in equal measure.

The iron bonds melt back into the chair and Yasha keels forward, clutching at her stomach to force the feeling back into her numb arms. Her feet explode into a fire of knives as she tests them against the stone and Yasha bites back a hiss.

“Can you walk?” the woman asks, staring down the length of her nose.

Yasha braces her forearms on the chair and grits through the pain as she rises onto unsteady legs, but the first careful step still sends her plummeting to the ground. The woman _tsks_.

“Up we get.” She plucks at a leather loop woven between two gold chains and the fire in Yasha’s limbs vanishes. Yasha looks down to find the stone beneath her hands and knees a distant thing, growing more distant by the second. The woman twirls a finger and Yasha floats forward, hung by invisible threads from the ceiling. “Come now,” she calls out, and the two men in black armour step out from the hallway. Instead of a torch and a tray, one now bears strips of cloth cloth, and the other a set of manacles.

It can scarcely be called a fight. The woman nods and steps to the right and the two circle Yasha, and though she can move her head she cannot force her body to turn to face them. Kitten-weak, she thrashes against their grasp but without leverage her swings have no power, and her arms are caught and bound before she can land a single punch. Something drops in front of her eyes: a strip of darkness, growing larger and larger until it blocks out everything, and she’s left with not even a trace of light as comfort. Another bit of fabric forces its way between her lips and then the hands leave her, and the world is empty again, save the noise of her own harsh breathing.

Without her feet on the ground, she can’t tell which way is up. The only way to mark movement by the change in the flow of air and the sound of three sets of accompanying footsteps. She must float forward because there is nowhere else to go: out of the room, down the hall, and that is as far as she can picture before her imagination fades into static.  She counts the paces, trying to keep a sense of the distance they’ve travelled but loses track around 200.  The air goes from warm to sweltering as they walk, like a furnace lies along their path. The heat doesn’t last long, but it’s enough for the blindfold to grow damp beneath her hairline.

The steps change cadence, slowing and falling into a different rhythm, and the air begins to cool again. This time she only counts twenty paces before the steps halt altogether.

A click, and the scrape of wood against stone at her front, and a few moments later the sound of a latch clicking, this time at her back. One of the sets of footsteps returns, but fades, and returns again, and there’s another click, and another scraping of wood, and a hand plants itself between her ribs and shoves.

A sharp intake of breath, somewhere to her right, and then there are hands on her again, pulling her forward and unfastening the manacles and forcing her down onto something hard and flat, and the strings that were holding her aloft all snap at once. Cold rings press against her ankles and wrists, fastening her to whatever she’s seated on.

“I don’t understand…” Small, hesitant, masculine: unfamiliar. A new voice.

“Your additional materials.” Thin, disinterested: the woman. “Purebred Xhorhasian, as discussed.”

“Well, um, that was more of a hypothetical, really…”

“She’s well restrained, you needn’t worry. It should be perfectly safe to collect your samples. I wouldn’t recommend putting your hands near her mouth, but I trust you not to do anything stupid.”

“Well, no, of course!” and the voice sounds almost offended, but just as quickly fades back into nervousnesss. “Should be fine, if you say it’s fine. It should be fine…”

“Good. Then someone will be back to collect her in the evening.” A pause. “I hopes this proves the end to your… halted progress.”

“I- me too! I hope that too. I’m working as fast as I can.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the woman says without a hint of gladness.

And then the footsteps grow farther off, and the wood scrapes again, and Yasha counts to forty before she hears anything else.

Finally, there’s a new set of steps - light, faltering. Coming closer.

“H-hello?”

She grunts past the gag in her mouth, but can’t move her mouth enough to form anything intelligible. The footsteps retreat a pace or two.

“ _Oh_ , what is happening, what is happening…” the voice mutters to itself in frantic, half-formed sentences. “I thought it would be vials, not a _person_... But I can’t… I have to, it’s the only thing left to try, and I need to do something or the Lady… or… I guess I’ve got to do it.”

A clinking sound, the noise of metallic things being shuffled around, and then the footsteps draw right up to her side.

“Please… please don’t hurt me,” the voice whispers, and then drops into long, slow breaths. “Okay. You’re doing this.” More calmly. “You’re doing this.”

The prick barely registers as pain, but warmth drains from her arm as something presses beneath her skin, and Yasha squeezes her eyes closed despite the darkness as the thing presses deeper into her arm and _takes_. She doesn’t dare jerk forward and risk forcing the instruments farther into her so she grasps the arms of the chair to keep herself still until her fingernails dig into the smooth surface. At last the pressure releases, and she breathes heavy through the gag.

The voice whimpers, then the footsteps retreat again. More pacing, more muttering.

“Do you hear me, voice in my head? Please, are you listening? I haven’t heard from you but I don’t know… something’s really wrong here, and I think… can you please just tell Veth to hurry?”

Yasha lurches, her tired brain barely able to pick up the significance of the word.

_Veth._

Veth means Nott.

Veth means _Yeza._  

She tries to cry out his name but her dry tongue presses fruitlessly against the gag and all that emerges is a choked off moan. The muttering falls abruptly silent. All she hears now are frightened little breaths from far off.

Yeza.

She’s found Yeza.

She’s found him.

And she cannot speak.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that, what I’m loosely terming “Act 1” in my head is now completed! The gears are now in motion, and the first clock is ticking. (Honestly, I feel like what I’ve done at this point is just tossed a bunch of balls up in the air, and now it’s time to find out if I can juggle. Fun! Scary!) 
> 
> I’m going to be travelling for the next two weeks, so updates will likely pause until I’m home. As much fun as editing this chapter on a 3 hour train ride after a full day of work followed by a sleepless red-eye was (and it legitimately was!) I don't think it'll be sustainable in the long term. (On a related note, if you spot any typos, please feel free to point them out! I was probably too tired to catch them all.)
> 
> Side note: DND mechanics are a little loosey-goosey in this chapter, hopefully that’s not too troublesome to anyone. I’m aware that rages are only supposed to last one minute at Yasha’s current level, and that she has a limited number of them, but you know what? Yasha’s Just That Good. I’m also choosing to go with what I interpret to be the spirit of “immune to being charmed while raging”, rather than the exact wording of the ability. Under RAW, you could probably use a Suggestion to force someone to reveal information without _technically_ imposing the ‘charmed’ condition, but as the DM of this story (in a sense :)) I’m ruling that the distinction isn’t super meaningful, at least not in this situation. Let’s just say she’s getting a big boost to her spell saves against manipulative commands, whether they specify that the target is ‘charmed’ or no, and call it a day.


	8. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jester and Fjord get to know their fellow Academy members a little better.
> 
> (PS. I'M BACK BABYYYY)

It’s near to a week before Jester finally meets the rest of Bahamut’s acolytes-in-training, and by that time her anxiety about the situation has found an equal companion in excruciating boredom. Every day is the same routine – a call to prayers after breakfast, charitable turns and packing poultices before lunch, meditation and personal study in the afternoon. No minute is unscheduled, no hour gone to waste. Everything is just so.

Kneeling before the clothed altar, Jester raises her eyes to the belly of the dragon sculpture hanging overhead. Its unblemished white scales are washed out to a dull grey in the afternoon shade. She imagines the ribcage expanding and softening with each gust of breeze. A dragon incursion would be a welcome spark of excitement in all the tedium. If she painted lungs across its chest, could the stone breath? The other acolytes bow their heads in reverence, but her gaze flits about the room, searching for other things to paint in her mind’s eye. With all her prayers gone unanswered, there’s little else to hold her attention, except maybe the set shoulders and scrunched faces of her new companions. 

To her right, Andras: an elven boy with dark, incisive eyes. She only knows his name by Eli’s introduction, since he hasn’t spoken a word to her. Still, he must be able to talk, she’s seen him muttering incantations below his breath when the others aren’t watching. Then there’s Julia, the human girl who’d grinned and taken Jester by the arm the moment she saw her, cheerily welcoming her to the group. Jester had swung her around until the both of them were breathless, and if she were a little taller, a little leaner, she might have been able to pretend it was– but she’s not, so it doesn’t matter, and besides, if she’s lonely she can ask Caduceus for a hug when she gets back to the room so really she shouldn’t be thinking on it at all. Really, she’s got more important things to worry about. Really, she’s fine.

Finally there’s Eli, the only one of the group with his full attention on his prayers, and Jester’s neck hurts just looking at how intently he bows over his little folio of chants.

Jester watches the three of them – Eli, Julia, Andras – and watches the way they watch her. Eli is intent on his books and his liturgy, but fixates on her hands as she weaves lazy cantrips like candy floss to pass the time. Julia gravitates to her, a bending willow inching ever closer and Jester doesn’t have the heart to push her away, even if the attention makes her uncomfortable in a way she can’t quite define. And Andras… Andras sneaks glances at her near constantly, and covers the movement with a scowl. Jester’s never once seen the pages of his book turn.

They talk sometimes too, in the last hours of the day, perched on the benches in a semi-circle and only Eli pretending to study. Julia chooses a spot by Jester’s feet. Andras’s scowl never softens, but his ears perk up.

“It’s so nice having another girl. It’s only been me since Ora left,” Julia says with the ghost of longing barely disguised beneath her flippant tone, and she rests her head near Jester’s knee. The wiry wisps of her dark hair tickle against the hem of Jester’s skirt and she pulls her legs up beneath her.

“Ora sounds pretty cool,” she says, and Julia hums in agreement. “Where did she go?”

“The war,” says Andras gravely, not looking up from his hands. Jester startles – it’s the first time she’s heard his voice properly, and it’s raspier than she expected. “Where else?”

“She’s serving a greater purpose,” Eli provides, “just like Vash-” but falls silent as Andras pinches him on the arm. Julia ignores the two and with a careful hesitance lays her head in the space between the bench and Jester’s knee. A burst of red lights in Jester’s memory: a soft voice, and a familiar song, and reaching up with both hands for comfort.

Jester is accustomed to being the youngest in the room. For her whole life, before Port Damali and Fjord and the Nein, she’d been the sweet child in a world of pampering adults. It never occurred to her to be concerned with silly things like age. But now, staring down at Julia’s curled form, at Andras’s mistrustful side-eye, at Eli’s unfettered admiration, for the very first time in her life she feels the weight of being _old_.

Eli can’t be more than seventeen, Julia certainly not much more than fifteen, and though she’s no good at clocking elven ages Andras looks to be the youngest of the three – short and narrow and so far from the romantic image of the daring soldier she’s always held, and he’s talking about _wars_. She was still playing with dolls at his age.

As much as they treat her like an equal, everything about their comradery is a half a beat out of sync with hers. In the last six months, she’s been three different people. She’s faced a dragon, buried a friend, killed without remorse. She isn’t a kid anymore. Maybe she hasn’t been in a while. It’s kind of a scary thought.

Gently, she takes a few strands of Julia’s hair and starts to braid, and the girl preens under the attention. It doesn’t feel half as good as her mother’s touch, but she’s the adult here. It’s right that she should be the one giving comfort.

(It’s right, but it doesn’t hurt any less.)

\---

By day four she’s had enough time to concoct a new plan. A better plan. Fjord and Caduceus, upon learning of her encounter at the front gate, soundly informed her she was never to try _anything_ like that again, which she took to mean that her second attempt had better be a lot more creative. (Or at least, that’s one way to interpret what they said, so she isn’t _technically_ going behind their backs.)

She starts simple: sneaking out to the garden under the guise of gathering snacks from the dining hall. Eli calls out to her that they aren’t allowed, but this elusive Master Kirn still hasn’t arrived and in the absence of any real authority figure, his protest is half-hearted. Andras stares as she goes, and she ducks out of his sight as quickly as she can.

It’s easy to steal away under the shade of the trees, calling out the Traveler’s name in hurried whispers as she darts between poplars and yews, all somehow still flowering even with winter’s edge coming on. If they’re dead like the ones Caduceus swears were rotting in the courtyard, she can’t see any trace of it.

It frustrates her more than anything, that the only beautiful things here might just be another trick – an illusion of hospitality, an imitation of freedom. She’d rather not know, so she could at least smell the fresh grass and not have to wonder if that’s tainted too. Isn’t she allowed even that much?

Eventually, she finds the place where the maybe-trees break. The base of the city’s outer wall rises up before her, tall and imposing and most importantly, with a definite end, even if it’s hard to see all the way to the top. She places her palm on the cool surface and counts the stones leading up at the cloudless blue sky. It’s near to a hundred before she loses her place, and that’s barely a quarter of the way up the wall.

This is the farthest she’ll get from the main campus. It’s her last, best shot to try, and so she channels a message with white-knuckled precision. _Yasha_ , she thinks. _Yasha, Yasha, are you there…_

Nothing. Nothing but her, and an impossibly high wall.

It can’t be higher than 500 feet. It can’t be.

_But what if it is? And even if it’s low enough, what if I miss?_

The thought is dizzying. She’s never seen the top of the wall, the place she’s aiming for. The best she can do is picture the spot above it and hope she’s quick enough to catch the edge if she guesses wrong.

_Traveller, don’t let me fall. Or, ooh, even better, teach me that spell Caleb and Nott have, super quick, the one that makes you go all floaty? …or if not, cool. I trust you._

She grips the symbol of the arch in her pocket and mutters a single word, and a dimension door shimmers open before her. For a moment, the air all around grows cool and dim, lit only by shifting folds of green. A familiar smile greets her behind the curtain and her heart swoops as she steps forward into the waiting arms of the Traveller, his expression relieved, his body wreathed in light-

Too much light-

Jester _feels_ the scream ripped from her body before the agony that accompanies it. Gone is the green and the Traveller’s embrace. Instead there’s searing white pain, and the sweet smell of earth, and the taste of death on her tongue.

***

Fjord enters the examination classroom on his second day of lessons to find all the desks pushed to the side of the room, save one: the last bastion of order in an empty expanse. The windows that hung open the day before are covered with heavy shades, and in the dim light he can barely make out the shape of Mirel, her hands planted on the smooth wood. Between her palms sits a small pot, with stalks of some sort of reddish plant peeping out. He closes the door and shuts out the last of the light from the hallway. The jeweled shades of red and purple fade to grey as Mirel pushes herself off the desk and walks towards the door.

Fjord raises a hand in greeting but the gesture goes unacknowledged. As she passes, she reaches into a pocket and produces a small silver disc. It flips it open to reveal a compact case of opaque powder. Mirel wets her finger and dips it in, then smears a little of the dust around the handle. A moment later, the ring glows ghostly green against the grey and the doorjamb _clicks._

“This room is ours, for now. Since apparently you need a reminder, we meet at seven each morning.” Fjord winces – debriefing with Jester and Caduceus ran long into the night, and he hasn’t had to wake up by anything but the sun or next watch or Caleb’s groggy muttering in months. His body will adjust to the routine eventually, but until then the best he can do is try to sleep early.

“Understood. Can I ask-” she shoots him a look that clearly conveys how unwelcome his question is, “-why cover the windows? Seems like a nice day out.”

“Tell me you’re fucking with me.” Fjord shrugs apologetically. “Still bright as ever, I see. Wonderful.” He doesn’t rise to the bait. Never does any good with bullies, to show them you’re bothered. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and waits for the admonishment to finish. “That little trick you pulled yesterday? Maybe you don’t have the _worldly knowledge_ , but I recognize necromancy when I see it. So tell me, what’s the one school of magic that’s illegal in the Empire?”

“…I guess I’m going to have to go with necromancy.”

“Wow, top of the class.” Mirel rolls her eyes. “Get over here.” Fjord follows. As she leans back onto the desk he mirrors her posture, bringing their eyes to equal level. “Lucky for you, your brand of necromancy is interesting to some people, so we’re not just going to turn you over to the crown, at least not yet. Instead, we’re going to _explore_.”

She plucks a frond between two fingers, rubbing the waxy surface before dipping a sharp nail into the meat of the red leaf. A trickle of clear fluid leaks out and coats her thumb.  “Do you recognize the genus?”

Fjord takes a closer look at the plant. Its fronds are jagged, broad leaves that narrow out to hundreds of needle thin points. He shakes his head.

“This is a particularly hardy weed, known only to bloom in the deepest cesspools of the Xhorhasian wastes. A rare specimen, but ultimately worthless. Still, if it could survive that shithole, it can survive anything, which also makes _it_ interesting.”

She looks at him significantly and he doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown either.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Simple. This plant is alive, against all odds. I want you to kill it.”

He looks down at the unassuming plant in its little bed of soil and earthenware. “I assume there’s a trick involved?”

“No trick,” she says. “It’s really not that complicated. Kill the plant, and you can be done for the day. Aren’t I nice?”

“…Alright.” He raises his hand to summon the falchion but his arm freezes in a familiar vice halfway to the ceiling, fingers locked and immovable around the grooved handle.

“I think we can do better than a little knife, can’t we?” Mirel singsongs, and before the panic of being restrained can set in again his muscles untense. His freed hand spasms and the falchion drops; he banishes it before it can hit the ground. “After all, you cut down one weed and two more spring up in its place. To really kill the thing, you’ve got to burn the heart right out.”

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”

Mirel yanks off the largest frond and twirls it. The acrid aroma of lightning burns through the air as electricity sparks near the base of the stem. Within seconds the leaf immolates completely, curling into itself like a weeping child as it shrivels and chars into nothing but a wisp of ash.

“There are lots of things I know. But enough demonstrations. So tell me, Fjord. How strong is your resolve? How deep are you willing to go?”

And isn’t that the question of the hour?

(He overslept from talking too late, sure, but also from the dreams, and the shower of seawater soaking the floorboards by Beau’s… Caleb’s.. empty bed, and the afterimage of smudged ink too many times turned over between anxious fingers, and the deep yawning of the ocean’s call. It’s hungrier now, for having been fed by his willing hand.)

“I’ll do what I need to.”

“Then that’s lesson one. Start from the heart. Once that’s gone, everything else crumbles.”

***

Jester comes back to herself in waves of warm, familiar tingles. The healing magic pulses through her arms and down to the tips of her toes. She reaches out to thank Caduceus, still too scrambled up to speak, but her fingers close around hands far too small and far less furry than her muddy brain expects. The hands lurch out of her grasp and snapping twigs and heavy breathing mark their owner’s retreat.

Groaning, Jester tries to push herself up, but drops back to her elbows as more pain lances through her wrist. Looking down, she sees the metal of the Traveller’s arch embedded into her palm, its silver lines edged with the slow crawl of congealing blood. She must have clenched it hard enough to bite through the skin.

“Why did you do that?” The voice is small. Frightened. Jester forces her eyes away from the grisly metal to meet the wide eyes of Andras, who stands framed amongst the trees, clutching his own holy symbol to his chest. “You know… you know that we can’t leave the grounds. You know.”

Carefully, Jester plucks the arch from her palm and shoves it back into her pocket before standing. Even with the healing magic dulling the worst of it, the movement still stings. “That _really_ hurt, holy shit.” The words come out croaky and too slow, like her mouth isn’t keeping up with her brain. “What happened?”

“The wards. You should be dead,” Andras whispers. He takes another step back and holds his symbol out like a shield between the two of them. “…You’re not a student, are you? What are you doing here?”

“Just… taking a little stroll,” she replies weakly, but he scoffs, low and aggravated and afraid.

“I mean _here_. At the temple. At the Academy.”

“I don’t know what-”

“You’re not from the Sanctum.” He starts listing his evidence, and his voice quivers with the same timbre as the rustling leaves. “You don’t know the prayers unless Eli says them first, you don’t talk like any teacher I’ve ever met.” Andras squares his shoulders, and Jester can see him reaching for every inch of his height as he finally looks her dead in the eyes. “Every student knows that you can’t teleport off the grounds, or into them. It’s the first thing they tell you in orientation. The wards are supposed to be strong enough to kill an intruder.” Jester takes a step forward and Andras steps back. “Who are you?”

“I’m Jester. Just… Jester.”

“Are you here to watch us?”

Jester squints, trying to follow the leap of logic. “I’m not. I mean, I don’t _think_ so. I’m not here to watch you, I’m just… here.”

Every trace of mistrust in his eyes is a mirror of her own misgivings. After all, Caleb warned them to be careful, didn’t he?

After all, couldn’t _he_ be the one watching her?

But he’s a _kid_.

Jester shivers, suddenly queasy in a way that has nothing to do with the lingering sickness in the back of her throat. What is this place turning her into, that even a little kid seems like a threat? This isn’t who she wants to be.

Jester smiles with only the smallest wince. “It’s ok. I promise I’m totally not here to spy on you. Honestly, I don’t want to be here, like, at all, _period._ Not that this place isn’t super nice,” she amends, because she doesn’t want to insult someone’s home even if _she_ thinks it’s a terrible place, “but my friends and I are kind of stuck here. They’re not letting us leave.”

He doesn’t move closer, but reluctantly Andras lowers his symbol. After a few moments’ hesitation, he starts to speak. “They won’t let me talk to my mother, or send her letters,” he whispers. “It’s supposed to be so we can focus on our studies, but nobody will say when I can again.”

“Do you miss her?” Jester asks, because sometimes Beau asks the same thing, and it feels good to say it even if it doesn’t change anything.

His face crumples, and she watches him search for the scowl to cover it. _It’s ok_ , she wants to say. _It’s ok to be scared. You don’t have to hide it. See, I’m scared too._ But she’s the older one, so she needs to be brave for both of them.

“When I was at the Sanctum, I sent her a message every night, to let her know things were ok.”

“But not anymore, though?”

“No sending messages. School rules. They told us that in orientation too. We’re ‘privileged with knowledge’ that it isn’t safe to tell the outside world.” He looks down, his expression morphing into something dark and bitter. “I wish I had stayed at the Sanctum. But it was an honour,” he bites into the word, “to be chosen. Yeah right. Pretty soon we’ll all be shipped off to the war. Eli took Ora’s spot when she left, and you took Vash’s. Everyone’s replaceable.”

“Vash?”

“He graduated this week. Probably halfway to the Ashkeepers by now. That’s why Master Kirn hasn’t been around, he was seeing him off.”

Faint humming drifts out from between the trees: far off, but not so very far. Andras grimaces.

“We should get back.”

Jester catches him arm before he can fully turn away. “Wait!” He looks back at her, expectant and nervous, but she wraps him in a hug. He stands wooden in her grasp, but Jester can feel his heartbeat start to calm against her chest. “We’re going to get out of here, and you’re going to get to see your momma again.”

He shakes his head into her shoulder, but his arms reach up to clutch at hers.

The walk back is quiet, and Jester is at once lighter and even more despairing than before. She can’t even rescue herself, how is she supposed to rescue anyone else? She squeezes her palms by her sides, forces the worry back down. She’s going to do it because she promised to, so she has to now, and that’s all there is to it.   

“Sorry!” she calls out as soon as they step back into the sanctuary. “Got _super_ lost, but Andras totally rescued me-” She pauses mid-sentence as Andras stills by her side.

An enormous figure looms over the altar, draped in panels of white and silver. As he turns Jester’s eyes meet pools of molten yellow sunken into a ridged, elongated snout. If Jester felt too large for her companions before, she feels small now.

The dragonborn’s face glimmers in the light from the openings in the dome, each scale tipped with flecks of shining gold. He sparkles as brightly as Molly once did, but on a grander scale. His whole _body_ is an ornament.

Each heavy step echoes as the creature descends. As he passes, Eli and Julia bow their heads. His simple robes fall loosely against his broad body, but beneath the long sleeves she catches a glimpse of curved talons.

“Sorry for our lateness, Master Kirn,” Andras says, and ducks off to the side to join his classmates. Kirn ignores him, focusing his attention solely on Jester. She gives him a little wave.

“Welcome to our temple, young one. Please, come with me. We have many things to discuss.”

***

It’s tedious work, the process of killing. Or at least, it seems that way for Mirel.

Fjord kneels on the hard floor, sweat-shined forehead proof of the effort it takes to maintain the field of hazy necrotic energy. It swirls around the plant, caressing leaves in the imitation of gentleness, and holding the spell burns his insides as much as it burns the impossible life before him. All the while his tutor leans against the desk, scowling at him and the open air with equal rancor, tapping her foot and occasionally dropped a barbed insult before falling back into sullen silence.

It’s day three when someone finally gives, and surprising no one, it’s him. With a huff he drops the field and her eyes swing downward, disdainful. “Tired already, so early in the day? Or giving up for good?”

 “Well, maybe it would help if you would actually teach me something,” he snipes back.

She studies her nails. They’re as immaculately painted as her makeup, but in the darkness he can’t make out the colour. “I told you, I don’t take students.”

“Then why even bother coming?”

“Because the higher ups ordained it, so here I am. Stuck here with you. Bully for both of us.”

“You got better places to be?”

“Always.”

“If you want to go, then go. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

She flicks her fingers and a spark of electricity lurches through his chest – a warning, once that’s becoming more familiar day by day. He’s almost stopped flinching when her hand starts to raise. “Don’t fuck with me.”

He holds his palms forward in submission, and tries not to let his breath betray how fast his heart is beating. A bolt of lightning two inches to the right and it might not be beating at all, and he’s not unaware of the precision required of her casting, or how easy if would be for her hands to slip.

“I’m not playing tricks. Just making conversation.”

Mirel snorts and sits back down on the desk with a frustrated sigh. “What’s the fucking point? This is all temporary anyway.”

“What’s that mean?

She pulls her lips back in a grin. “Once Master Ikithon gets tired of your friend, you’ll be gone, and I can go back to doing things that actually matter.” Fjord’s no stranger to the art of lying, leastwise to yourself. There’s a tightness in her smile, shadows of uncertainty obscured by bluster. Something worth probing into.

“My friend?”

“That string bean of a thing you all dragged in. Surprised he can lift his own head. Still, sounds like he’s less worthless than you. Master Ikithon only takes the best, not the dregs of the barrel.”

Interesting. “Only the best… like you?”

The slightest tightening of knuckles into the folds of her robes. _There_. He grabs onto the thread and tugs.

“So Ikithon’s with Caleb, and you’re stuck here with me? Sounds like someone’s been demoted.”

This time the spark flies through his skull, and for a moment he staggers, blinking away the sudden tears as the fluid of his inner ear fizzes and pops. He rights himself, gripping the edge of the desk and hissing through clenched teeth.

“Sorry, did I say demoted? I think I meant _replaced_.”

This time he isn’t so much dropped to the floor as slammed into it as the magical bindings wrap around his limbs.

“Big talk for a man who can’t even kill a plant.”

“I don’t know,” he forces out. Her spell is easier to resist now that he knows the shape of it, and with a dark surge of adrenaline he shakes loose the invisible shackles and rises to his feet. “I’m used to being underestimated. Kind of been my whole life, really.”

He reaches out for the darkness, the eye that never hangs too far from his vision. It rushes to the void he opens in his chest. “Sometimes you’ve got to force someone to take a closer look.” The power surges forward, filling space around his heart with icy water. His breath stutters as black smoke reforms around the head of the plant. _Come on, come on…_ Now’s the moment, or not at all. The water presses into the cavities of his ribcage, begging for more space, and little by little, he allows it room.

(Sometimes he wonders if anyone else’s magic _hurts_ the way his does.)

In Mirel’s eyes, he sees the most familiar fear of all, and it makes it all so, so easy.

_There’s nothing worse than to be abandoned, is there?_

Fjord tightens his grip, and the smoke turns to black sludge, coating every leaf and dripping down like adder’s poison into the soil. A sizzling sound follows, and the plant shrivels into a fiddlehead coil of lifeless husks.

_You start at the heart, I’ll start at the roots. One way or the other, the ship goes down._

 “You think I’m nothing? Fine. Then all you’ll have to show for your time is nothing. I’m sure that’ll be a great way to convince your master you’re worth taking back.”

The last remains of the plant begin to seep into the soil, leaving nothing but damp ash behind.

“Then again, you could teach me like he taught you. Make me better. Make me _something._ ”

He holds out a hand. She doesn’t take it, but after a long moment, Mirel nods.

“Let’s show that asshole what you’re capable of.”

***

Jester follows the dragonborn back into the eaves of the building, and all the while she can feel Andras’s eyes on her back. There’s no real way to convey in her walk that she’s not about to betray him but she tries her best, flashes a thumbs up behind her on the side where Kirn can’t see. She hopes it’s at least a little comforting.

They come to a closed door near the back of the temple, one she and Eli had passed but not entered on their initial tour, and he ushers her inside. It’s hard to contain her gasp of delight as she steps over the threshold.

The inside of the office is laden in in all manner of strange and wonderful knick-knacks. Compared to the rest of the temple and its minimalistic decoration the room is positively cluttered. It’s _beautiful_. Each new surface holds some intriguing piece – a carved statuette here, a copper sextant there, a pair of rose-lensed eyeglasses on a high shelf, a woven rug rolled and leaned against the far wall.

She bends to look at a particularly enticing artifact: a silver bowl with delicate embossments ringing the dome, sitting off-center on a haphazard stack of books. Well, half-silver. There are bits of the metal scorched a deep black, so dark it’s like looking into the night sky. Curious, Jester glances inside the bowl. The streaks of black end at the rim, but the rounded bottom is pitted with a constellation of small indentations, some depressed deep enough that the leather of the book below is visible through the paper-thin layer of metal.

“Something caught your eye?”

Jester startles. Kirn is looking at her, and she’s surprised to see a flicker of… amusement? Approval? He doesn’t look angry, that’s for sure.

“I think you need to get your bowl fixed. Definitely wouldn’t be good for holding soup, unless you wanted it all in your lap.”

Kirn chuckles, and the sound rumbles low in his chest like a brimming furnace. “A bowl like that is not for soup. Here, let me show you, since you are so curious.”

He walks over to another shelf and pulls down what looks like a pestle from behind a stack of papers – a smoothed piece of wood with a rounded end. In his enormous hand, it might as well be a twig. He walks to her side and holds the instrument above the edge of the silver rim.

Slowly, he draws the wood around the top of the bowl. Jester looks on in fascination as the movement traces the edge of the pattern. After the wood circles three times and nothing happens, she starts to fidget.

“Am I…”

“Hush.”

Again, the wood circles, and then she hears it – the lowest hum, like the buzz of insects on a hot day but milder, muffled. Her ears strain to pick up the sound, but with each revolution it grows more insistent. Louder, and faster, and her heart quickens to match the pace of the motion. Soon the sound becomes the whole room – a resounding, ringing note that expands to fill every open space. It’s almost too intense to bear, and just as Jester moves to cover her ears Kirn lifts the wood from the rim.

For a split second, the tone hangs in the air, suspended and breathless. Then he brings the wood down and the tone shatters, warping into a thousand discordant harmonies before fading back into nothingness.

Jester wrinkles her nose. The echoes of the final wrenching notes still reverberate in her chest and It’s not altogether pleasant. “It was pretty until the end,” she supplies cautiously.

“Isn’t that the way of things?” Kirn sets the wooden piece down beside the silent bowl. “There was a time you would have wept to hear the finale, but the bowl is damaged. It doesn’t sing like it used to.”

“Can’t you fix it?” Jester asks. “I’ve got a mending spell, I could try-”

“It’s too delicate an instrument to repair with your magic, or mine,” Kirn interrupts. “I’m afraid the damage is beyond our power to reverse.”

“But there’s got to be someone, right? Who could repair it?”

“There was,” Kirn says. “There were once many who knew how. I’m not sure how many remain.” He regards her blank stare. “But you are young. Not as young as most of my students, but young enough not to know.”

He sighs and pulls up a chair for her amidst the towering piles. “I have many relics here. This is all I could save from the Great Temple before it plunged from the sky and into the sea. It was not enough.” He traces one talon over the edge of the bowl. The scraping sound it makes is harsh and not all like the beautiful tone of the wood.

“When Draconia fell, so much was lost. Its history, its wealth, its people. There are few of us left who remember how beautiful it all was. There was a time when every follower of Bahamut would make the pilgrimage to the Citadel, just to see the temple in all its glory. Now broken bowls are all we have left.”

It feels like something she should know, some piece of history she’s missing. _The Fall of Draconia._ It rings a bell, somewhere in the periphery of her mind. Wildmount was home to the province of Draconia, and then it wasn’t. She’s heard people mention it, but it happened long ago: 20 years, or 40, or 100, she doesn’t remember. All she really knows is that there aren’t many dragonborn in Nicodranas, and that maybe there were more, once.

“It sounds like you really miss it.” Jester murmurs. It seems like the right thing to say.

Kirn’s eyes focus from where they were lost in thought a moment before. He sits up straighter and puts his hands on his knees, and as he does his sleeves shift to reveal more of his arms. Many of the scales above his wrists are burnt black. Others are missing entirely.  “We all long for something, and it’s that something that gives us purpose in this life. Tell me, Jester, is there something you long for? Is there something you want, above all else?”

She barely hesitates before answering. It barely occurs to her that she should. “I want to protect my friends. I want us all to be together again.” Andras’s words echo in her mind. _Is there anyone here who isn’t homesick?_

Kirn sits back in his chair. “I know that pain, more than perhaps anyone else you will meet at the Academy. You are among strangers, as I am. A tiefling and a dragonborn – a strange pairing, to be sure.” He smiles kindly at her, and she returns the smile gratefully. “I know of your circumstances. I know it is not your choice to be here, and I am sorry for that. I do not always agree with the decisions the Headmistress makes.”

“Are you trapped here too?”

“No,” he says simply, and Jester’s heart falls, just a little. It would have been nice to know they weren’t the only ones. “I am here because the resources the Academy provides allow me to do my work in peace, and because there is nowhere left that I will not be among strangers. One day, perhaps that will change. Draconia was once the greatest nation in Wildmount. I believe that it will be once more. That is _my_ greatest wish. To see her shining and whole once again.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” he echoes. He folds his hands into his sleeves, carefully pulling them down until the scars are concealed. “The Headmistress asked me to keep a close watch on you. To fashion you into something useful for her purposes. But my gratefulness for the place that the Academy has given me does not mean I follow orders without question. I will not become your jailer, Jester. So,” he says softly, so softly she has to lean forward to hear the words, “if you wish to go, I will help you.”

Scarcely daring to hope, scarcely daring to _breathe_ , Jester leans forward. “How? How do I get out?”

His amber eyes twinkle, and his whisper takes on a conspiratorial edge. “Well, you’ve been an excellent pupil over this last week. Your skills far outmatch what I can teach. My dear, I do believe you’re ready to _graduate_.”

Jester breaks into a wide grin, her chest filled to the brim with sunshine. “You know, I’m pretty sure I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL SO, SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE. I truly did not intend the hiatus to last this long. Long story short, I finally quit a job I've been wanting to quit for almost two years now, and then had the utterly terrifying task of finding a new position. So needless to say, that whole process had to be the #1 priority over the last month. Thankfully, I've finally got it all sorted out: new job acquired, stress levels reduced to acceptable standards, which means free time for writing again!
> 
> One positive thing from this whole break is that I finally managed to get together a comprehensive outline for the rest of the story. Before all I had were vague story beats I wanted to hit, now I actually have a chapter-by-chapter plan! I guess sometimes it helps to step away to get some perspective!
> 
> Side note: I'm so happy that Matt mentioned the ravenites in a recent episode. I want to know everything there is to know about the Draconian diaspora post-Conclave. I was already planning to include it in this fic, but super fun to get more canonical info!


	9. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caleb learns a new spell, among other things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of self-harm

These are things Bren learned, piece by piece: how to protect information, how to keep your surface thoughts hidden, how to not be seen by inquiring eyes. The torturer may just as soon find himself in the chair, and there are more ways into a mind than pain. To practice, they each took a turn – him and Astrid and Eodwulf – and he discovered quickly that this was one aspect of the job that came easy to him.

Lying to others? Very difficult.

Lying to himself? Not an issue.

That is, unless Astrid was in the room. It was harder, to look over Ikithon’s shoulder and past the knife and see her dark hair and darker gaze and not remember her turn came next, not imagine her leather strapped and bleeding, pleading for it all to stop. Bren had never once heard her beg, but it’s all his nightmares consisted of, back then. There was very little else he allowed himself to fear.

As in all things, Ikithon noticed his hesitation, and so over time these particular sessions became a pair exercise. It only took a few weeks for the lesson to sink in: attachment is the deadly nightshade of the _Vollstrecker_. It is impossible to control your thoughts when they belong to someone else. _Put her out of your mind_ , he reminded himself, again and again, _at least until the trial is over. At least until you two can be alone._

(Neither had thought to wonder if their private rooms were truly so secure, or if the absence of eyes really meant they were safe.)

After that first night, Caleb doesn’t seek out Fjord and Jester and Caduceus again. The chairs in Ikithon’s office are made of plush velvet instead of iron, stained with madder dye and not blood, but the razor wire still circles his throat, begging him to draw his own noose. _Ask to stay with them again tonight,_ it coaxes. _Why not take what you can, while it’s still yours to take?_

He shushes the impulse, the foolish longing to escape the empty white walls of his solitary room. Instead, he wishes for an ale, because that is a safe thing to want. Or for an endless sleep, because that is truer to the truth and yet not quite a betrayal. He wishes he didn’t know how to play this game, so it could all be over quicker.

But he does, and he plays it by heart, and it grows easier to be empty day by day.

\---

“I never expected transmutation to be your forte,” Ikithon muses as they walk side by side through the spotless Academy halls. Dirt clings to the bottom of Caleb’s soles, evidence of the torn earth left in his cat paw’s wake, but by tomorrow any trace of the grime will be gone. Someone comes to take his clothes now, and leaves him fresh ones in the morning. No imperfections can be tolerated, not for longer than a day.

Ikithon leaves a pause, which might mean that his response isn’t required, or maybe the opposite. Caleb stares at his feet, tracks the progression of the white tile beneath his steps. _One, two, three…_ “Oh, I see. What was I good at, when I was younger?” he asks mechanically. _Six, seven…_  

“Evocation was your specialty,” Ikithon explains. “You had a great talent for the elements. Flame, for example.”

 _Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…_ “…Ja?”

“But perhaps we spent too long in that field, and not enough exploring the rest of your talents. I see now how easily the transmutation comes to you, as easily as your fire once did.” Ikithon pauses again as he unlocks the door to his office, and Caleb nearly runs into his back, so focused is he on the remaining tiles and the ever-climbing count. “I suspect you might benefit from a more rounded approach. There are many interesting magics at your disposal, so much that has been learned even in the last few years. Once we finish our work on the basics, you’ll have the foundation to master anything you wish, and the best resources at your disposal to do so. I am committed to ensuring you reach your full potential, wherever that lies.”

Ikithon pushes the door open, beckoning Caleb inside and as always, his eyes are drawn to the overburdened shelves with their scrolls and tomes.

He isn’t a fool: this is a carrot, and he is the horse drawn to the laden thread. Even if Ikithon doesn’t know much of Caleb yet, he knows Bren well enough. He knows the part of him that has always hungered for knowledge, has desired it above creature comforts or sleep or pleasure. He stoked the fire in Bren’s soul with the promise of _more_ , and that fire has never died.

There’s a thought that forms, a dangerous one that Caleb obscures in the shifting images of broken clay, of an empty grave, of the bangles in Mollymauk’s hair: that somewhere in Ikithon’s library might lie the key to what he’s been searching for. That this is the sacrifice the world asks. That maybe the thing he feared above all others is the blood sum, the price of his parents’ lives. There would be a certain symmetry in that.

He thinks too of Avantika’s red hair, and cruel smile, and the words _you do what you have to do_ souring on his lips. He sent Fjord to the slaughterhouse for an hour of precious time. How much more are his parents’ lives worth than Fjord’s integrity? How much less is his? If he’s not willing to lay beneath the sheets of his worst enemy, how can he claim he’s done all he can?

_(If you’re lying to yourself, how will you know?)_

_(Don’t you always find the perfect cause to justify taking what you want?)_

“My studies have been my own for a long time,” he says finally. “With limited resources, I had limited… potential. If there are things you would teach me, I would like to learn them.”

“Excellent.” Ikithon steps behind the desk and pulls down an entire sheaf of scrolls, all neatly bundled together with golden twine. He murmurs a command word and the bindings melt away, leaving the papers to roll from their pyramid into an orderly line.  

“In your studies, have you ever heard the word dunamancy?”

Slowly, Caleb shakes his head. Molly hasn’t. Molly has never been to the little town of Felderwin, or seen the sleepy apothecary shop in ruins, or cried for the loss of his truest friend’s trust. He’s glittering in the moonlight, carefree and dark, and his hideous nature is still nothing but a whisper in a dusky bar: unfounded and unproved. Molly’s heart has no reason to race at the word, at the sickly suspicion that the knowledge he’s about to trade himself for is the very thing that made him desirable to begin with.

Ikithon touches his fingers to a number of the scrolls before landing on one newer than the rest, with barely a crease in its vellum. “It’s a strange sort of magic. Very ancient, very powerful. Not many know its name, even in the Academy.” _Here_ , the words intimate, _I trust you with this secret. Trust me in return._

“Why not?”

“Very simple. Dunamancy is Crick magic.” He spreads the scroll across the desk, revealing a litany of glyphs and neat lines in a language Caleb can’t parse. “These scrolls contain the record of all we’ve managed to capture over the last 30 years of careful intelligence. Some by word of mouth, some by documents like these. All of it, highly confidential.”

Caleb steps closer, and despite his warning Ikithon does not draw the parchment back. Instead, he rotates the page so Caleb can view the writing right-side up.

The language he doesn’t know, but the symbols… those are seared into his memory. They’re formed of the same jagged glyphs Ikithon carved into his flesh, before he lowered his blade to carve out slots for the crystals that came after. Those shallow cuts left no scars, not in the way the crystals did, but he remembers the making just as vividly. The skin beneath his robes begins to prickle.

_There are 24 lines of text on the first page, and 33 characters in the first line, and 4-_

“What does it say?” he asks, and does not raise his arm to scratch at the itch. _16 lines on the second-_

“It is a means to manipulate time itself.”

A shiver runs up Caleb’s spine. He takes two fingers and traces the lines of the first symbol, painting its curves into his memory. “How is that possible?” _Does it matter, it’s what you need…_

“That is the great mystery, one even our best minds cannot solve. Though the words are easy enough to translate, the power itself is difficult to master. It takes a physical toll on the… _unaccustomed._ ” Ikithon touches his weathered fingers lightly to the places at his temples where the skin peels away in darkened spots. “Though perhaps I simply show my age.”

The smile he offers up is warm. It invites Caleb to share in the self-deprecation. Caleb can’t bring himself to return it. He’s been expecting the paternal affectation to drop, for the cold pragmatism of his past teacher to return. But while there are still moments where he sees the calculation behind Ikithon’s eyes, it’s balanced by words of gentle guidance, and a patience Caleb had no idea the man was capable of.

If he didn’t know better, he’d almost believe Ikithon meant what he said about the regrets, about wanting to do better by Caleb. He’d almost suspect the man _missed_ him.

“Are you offering this spell to me, to learn?”

“Exactly so.”

Caleb eyes him. Suspicion here seems warranted, reasonable. It’s the appropriate reaction. Safe. “You don’t trust your other colleagues with this knowledge. Me, you knew- you say you knew- over a dozen years ago. Why trust me with it?”

“Because there is no one else I’ve taught who has ever matched your potential. If anyone can unlock the secret of dunamancy, it will be you.”

“Surely, there must have been others…” _Astrid, Eodwulf._ He can’t ask directly. Molly doesn’t know their names.

(Molly died before he got the chance.)

He doesn’t know what answer he’d want, even if he could ask. Is it better for Astrid to be dead, for Wulf to be no more? If Astrid is still here, then he is doomed, because he has never been able to hide a thing from her. If she is gone…

“Others? Yes, some who came close. Mirel, for instance – you met her a few nights ago. She too has a powerful talent with the elements, and her diligence is not to be denied. But she is impatient, overeager. The focus required to master the power eludes her. Another… does the name Eodwulf recall anything in your memory?”

He is prepared enough not to flinch. “No. Should it?”

Ikithon purses his lips. “I had hoped… well. You would have known him – I believe you two grew up in the same town? A rather large boy, who grew into a larger man. He has many duties nowadays for the Crown, but I do enlist his help for some of the trickier work, when he’s available. So yes, to answer your question: there are others who might have suited. But you should count yourself in that favoured few.”

Ikithon gathers up the other scrolls. The golden twine spins out and re-wraps the pile as he returns the bundle to the shelf. “You’ve already demonstrated that you’re capable of comprehending foreign languages. I don’t imagine this one will prove particularly troublesome.” He looks at Caleb and then at the chair facing the desk. Caleb makes no move to sit. “You may begin.”

Caleb shuffles from foot to foot, staring at the page. If he begins, then there is no going back. No way to excuse what he is choosing to do. “I have no spare pages in my spellbook,” he stalls, pulling out the battered book as evidence. “It’s been a long while since I’ve been in a position to acquire more paper and ink.”

“The ruffians you travelled with withheld pay, as well as food?” Ikithon says, glancing down the length of Caleb’s body, and the thick robes do nothing to shelter him from the fact that Ikithon now knows every inch of his haggard frame.

“No,” Caleb hedges. “I wouldn’t say that. Only we didn’t have access to the proper stores, often.”

“It’s no matter,” says Ikithon, waving his hand. He opens a desk drawer and after a moment of searching pulls out a thin black journal. Its cover is embossed with a delicate border of silver thread. “This should suffice as a supplement. The spells we practice together should remain separate from your spellbook, at least for now. I’d prefer the knowledge stay within school grounds.”

Caleb takes the book and opens it, breathing in the crisp scent of new parchment. It’s the only truly new book he’s held in decades. Even the spellbook he carries was secondhand, nearly useless before he sunk two years worth of stolen wages into replacing its pages.

“Start by studying the spell, and when you feel prepared, then we will practice.”

A new spellbook, magic that manipulates time, and the chance to learn it with the only practitioner in the Empire.

The world won’t give him a second chance at a miracle. It’s now, or not at all.

Caleb lowers himself into the chair and pulls the scroll forward.

\---

The easiest moments, the only ones where Caleb feels he can almost breathe, are when there is a desk between the two of them. As Ikithon seats himself and pulls out a spellbook of his own, Caleb at last allows his shoulders to relax. Here, at least, he can observe from the relative safety of distance.

Ikithon has never been transparent, but in a way, he has always been _predictable_. When it came down to fundamentals, Bren knew where Ikithon stood. His day to day motions could not be anticipated, his lessons a constant escalation of _this too_ and _can I truly_ but Ikithon’s motivations, at least, were clear. If there was one constant Bren has never had cause to question, it was his teacher’s absolute devotion to the Empire.

But there are changes now, changes Caleb cannot predict. What’s the need of gentleness in a world when the threat of death, or the death of his friends, could achieve the same end? What’s the cause for careful words, for a soft brush of a hand in passing. Ikithon has never been a sentimental man. Why look at him now, like this?

He’s been thinking too long. Caleb unstoppers a provided bottle and busies himself in the careful strokes of ink on paper. Preparation lines, mostly, to give himself time to cast Comprehend Languages and pretend that that was all he’d been doing, not drifting off into thoughts worth eavesdropping onto.

One moment the script is nothing but jumbled lines, then he blinks and Zemnian fills the page. He can still make out the original symbols beneath the translation, but the magic supplies the familiar syllables of his mother tongue. It is so rare, so comforting, to be spoken to in an accent he knows, and even if it’s only in his head he savours the words as he skims through the spell.

The scroll is not written in the format he’s accustomed to. Empire scripts tend to follow a particular formula, with standard headings prescribed by some regulatory body he’ll never meet: components, somatics, incantations and enunciations each in their own boxes for easy consumption. Here all the definitions are interleaved, with each sentence running into the next. There is seemingly no order to the passages, but when he tries to rearrange the text something more familiar in his new spellbook, he finds himself losing the thread. He tears out the ruined page and starts anew, this time following the erratic style of the original, and the magic flows from his pen into the paper more easily.

The complexity of the spell is breathtaking. The symbols inscribed between paragraphs are intricate, and at times he can’t tell the difference between the scribe’s flourish and essential elements of the glyphs. One hour of study turns into two, turns into three, and the process is so blessedly engaging that Caleb almost forgets where he is. He pauses over a particularly tricky piece of symbology and looks up to ask Nott to fetch him another piece of blotting fabric. He finds instead Ikithon, pen poised over a half-finished document. The request dies in his throat.

“Yes?”

“Ah-”

“Is something giving you trouble?”

“No.” Too sharp, too contrary. Try again. “…Yes.” Ikithon leans over and Caleb points at the troublesome symbol. “This. It looks like a word, just like this one here, but I cannot translate it. It’s repeated many times throughout the text.”

“Ah. I found that interesting as well. You are partially correct. It is not quite a word. The best we can posit is that it is punctuation of a sort. It expresses a finality of thought. An ending.” Ikithon folds his hands on the desk. “Had you grown up on the border, you would have had no trouble recognizing this symbol.”

“Oh?” Despite himself, Caleb is curious.

“How much do you remember of the history of our conflict with the Kryn?”

“Only what I’ve learned over the last few years.”

“Then that is another lesson to refresh.” Ikithon sets down his pen and steeples his fingers. “Officially, we have only been at war with Xhorhas as of this year, but in truth, we have been at war for longer than I’ve been alive. The length and severity of the battles vary between years. Which side has lost more soldiers, I doubt any but the gods know. But they hit us, and we retaliate in force, and so long as we did not call it war, the common folk slept easily.

“The year I first saw this symbol was the bloodiest of them all. The Kryn began spreading rumours that Dwendalian soldiers were kidnapping Xhorhasians on masse from the outlying mountain villages, dragging them to Rexxentrum to become slaves, or worse. Baseless propaganda, of course; there has never been a slave trade in Rexxentrum, and hundreds of Xhorhasian prisoners could not so easily disappear with the city walls. Still, the barbarians believed it was us who had taken their villagers and set to retaliate.”

Caleb listens in sick fascination as Ikithon continues his description with the same blasé tone as one discussing a sub-par meal.

“As is their nature, their methods of retaliation were far more violent than the supposed crime. Instead of making bodies disappear, they left their victims in full sight, with this very symbol-” he marks the same place in the scroll with a long fingernail- “carved into their chests. _Final_. This would be the end of it, they promised, once every border town had been cleansed, in payment for their losses.” Ikithon chuckles. “And it _was_ the end of it, until the next skirmish began. And so it always continues. There is no ending to any of this, no finality. Nothing will ever stop them.”

“I don’t… I hope this doesn’t come off as… impertinence.” The urge to be agreeable only quickens as Ikithon’s gaze moves off the page and back to him. He wants nothing more then to be unseen, to divert the serpent’s attention far from himself. The impulse to _know_ is stronger. “But I would ask- if it is futile, then why keep fighting? The Empire loses as many soldiers as the Kryn. What is the sense in their deaths, if it all comes to nothing?”

It’s not a question Bren would have asked. Bren knew, unquestioningly, why they were fighting. It was the same reason his father came back from battle bloodied but proud, that his mother sewed patches to bring to the soldiers on his next return, that every eye in Blumenthal was raised towards the capital’s might and every tax offered freely, though there was little left to spare when the winter came. What purpose was there in their poverty, in sending their neighbours and parents and children to their deaths, if it wasn’t for the good of the Empire? If it wasn’t for something greater than themselves?

“We fight because it is our duty, it is _my_ duty, to protect the citizens who cannot protect themselves. If given the chance, the Kryn would destroy every last one of us, and burn the rest of the Empire to the ground. If we do nothing, we may as well hold the torches ourselves.” Ikithon reaches into his sleeve and Caleb barely catches the hint of something white disappearing into his palm. “We could put aside the conflict, let things be. Let them do as they will, and wipe our hands of it. But someone must bear the responsibility. It’s people like us who have the power to stop it. We _choose_ to stop it. Or,” he flicks his hand and the bright illusion of a flaming pyre rises in miniature over the desk, “we choose to hide. To save ourselves, and by doing so doom every last place we know, every last person we love.”

The flames crackle and spit like a real fire would. The stinging scent of smoke fills Caleb’s nostrils. He pushes back his chair, gripping the armrests till his fingers are as stiff as the wood. Six month ago, the flames would have held Caleb hypnotized, a prisoner in his own head. Even now, strong as his mind has become, the flinch isn’t something he can control. Reflected through the light of the illusion, Ikithon’s eyes gleam devilish orange, his skin burned clean by the flames. “Is that the man you would be, Bren?” _(Caleb, Molly-)_ “One who leaves those he loves to die, to save himself?”

 _If I love no one, then there is nothing to leave. That is the one lesson you taught me that I should have learned sooner._ “…I would not.”

The illusion snuffles down to nothing, leaving the desk as it was: a sea of uncharred pages.

“Then you are exactly where you need to be. The work we do may be dangerous, painful, lonely. But it is a small price to pay for the safety of all we hold dear.”

In this, in _only_ this, Caleb finds himself agreeing.

\---

When four hours have passed, Caleb at last has the broad strokes of the spell copied into the black notebook. Over the course of his study, he’s managed to deduce at least the gist of its purpose, though he suspects there are intricacies that only use and further study will reveal.

The first aspect of the spell creates a pocket of time dilation, extended out over fifty feet. The caster then slows the flow of time around themselves, creating the space for the next moment to pass, all the while waiting to strike themselves. The dilation provides just enough foresight to plan one’s reaction to events not yet occurred. It’s unlike any magic Caleb’s seen before. He raises a hand to start tracing an experimental glyph, and Ikithon catches him with a sharp look.

“There are two rules I should make very clear: this spell is never to be practiced an uncontrolled space, and _never_ without my direct supervision. The dunamis is temperamental. I would hate to see what would happen to any bystanders should your first attempt prove unsuccessful.” Ikithon stands. “Come, I have a more appropriate training ground.”

Caleb expects to be led back to the hallway, but instead Ikithon walks to one of the little tables and draws aside the velvet cover. Caleb had assumed it was simply a decorative tablecloth, but beneath the fabric lies a round surface of rich mahogany wood, inlaid with spheres of deep crimson glass. Ikithon presses his fingers to the sphere in the centre, larger and smoother than the rest. Before Caleb’s eyes a heavy wooden door materializes on the far wall.

“Come,” Ikithon beckons again. He knows not to disobey an order twice and follows, glancing over the table as he passes. The glass spheres don’t emit a strange glow or faint hum, nothing at all to indicate magical properties. Still, here they are, facing this new door. It didn’t shimmer into existence, it simply wasn’t, then _was_. Was it always there and hidden behind a glamour, or does it only exist because Ikithon wills it so?

Ikithon turns the knob and pulls it open. “After you,” he says, gesturing inside. It’s stupid to enter. He has no idea what he’s walking into. But does it matter? Every door that Ikithon opens for him will lead to a trap, one way or the other. All that matters is that he steps through of his own free will.

He does, after a moment’s hesitation, pushing past the apprehension and hushing the better sense that whispers that portals to the unknown shelter dragons as often as gold.

The room they enter on the other side is a simple one made of carved bricks, maybe 30 by 30 feet. No windows, no adornments. Just smooth, uncompromising stone. Ikithon closes the door and Caleb reminds himself that nobody’s bound his hands and that he can still turn the knob, if he chooses to. If he needs to. It’s enough to keep the claustrophobia at bay.   

“Here, we can practice in safety.” Though it sets him closer to Ikithon than he’d like, Caleb nudges towards the door until his hand can brush solid wood. “This pocket exists outside the material plane, somewhere the undisciplined bending of entropy can’t reap lasting effects. A simple space, but it serves the need.” Ikithon moves to the center of the room and squares his shoulders toward Caleb.

“Your task is simple. Dodge my strike. The drill begins now.”

The bright flash of energy comes before Caleb can so much as throw up a hand. His body sings out the memory of pain, its spectre flooding his brain with mindless panic, and any thoughts of spells or shields are gone in the blankness of

_(don’t kill me here, like this)_

all the times he

_(i can do better)_

still lying on the floor

_(let me try again)_

fire beneath his skin and in his mouth and cracking his teeth and the pain is no worse than the anticipation

_(then do better, bren)_

“Bren.”

…

“ _Caleb._ ”

Caleb comes back to himself in sluggish blinks, and when his eyes refocus he’s looking down at his hands, and they’re trembling but not painted with angry red lines, not singed with lightning or flame or scorching light. Ikithon is standing as far as he ever was, watching with a lifted brow, and Caleb is grateful for the distance and ashamed in the same turn.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” says Caleb, shaking his head to force his hair to fall back in front as much as it can. Its protection is still meagre. He ducks his chin to his shoulder instead. “It is fine. It is- fine. Let’s continue.”

Ikithon nods, but this time he raises his hands with telegraphed clarity, blatantly stepping through the somatics of the spell, and Caleb is almost offended, to be treated like a first-year student learning their first shield charm. He begins rapidly tracing the glyphs of the spell in the air, willing his hands to hold steady, but barely makes it through the second symbol before the same flash of light comes. He shrinks inward, anticipating the impact and the pain.

A warm wave of energy washes over him, filling his vision with a field of sparking lines. His hands, still outstretched mid-glyph, glow with radiant energy for only a few moments, then the foreign energy fades out entirely. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lets his shoulders untense.

“Too slow,” Ikithon says, brushing his hands on his robes. “Once more.”

Sucking in a heavy breath through his nose, Caleb straightens his back and begins tracing again, numbness and agitation warring for control beneath his blank expression. There is supposed to be pain in failure. There is nothing else. There is no mercy, no second chance.

This is not how training works.

The second ball of light hits him just shy of completing the final glyph and his fingers could have made the final loop, could have pressed forward and completed the spell, and yet-

He’s keening for it: the sharp sizzle of agony, the pain he didn’t deserve then but deserves now, the visceral proof of his history, that Ikithon’s cruelty is more than a ghost in his memory. He lets the magic die on his lips, and waits.

Again the light impacts, and again, his hands glow and then fade, and he’s left with nothing but a slight buzzing sensation, far too little stimulation to sooth the fear or the fury in his chest.

“Again,” and the word is undemanding, and Caleb wants to scream at him to just do what he means to do, so they can stop playing this game where they pretend the punishment isn’t coming.

“This is too constrictive,” he mutters and pulls the robes from his shoulders with vicious abandon. Petty excuses are enough cause for a reprimand, but Ikithon watches with the same unreadable expression as he throws the fine garment to the floor. Treating the gifts he’s been given without respect – that’s another offense, and he’s been left bruised and bleeding for less.

There’s nothing to cover his arms now, just a thin undershirt and no bandages to hide behind. The white of the scars blare against the ruddy rush of blood beneath his skin.

“Again,” Caleb echoes, and this time he finishes the curl of the last symbol and then he’s watching the light come towards him, only now as an afterimage. Ikithon still stands in the centre of the room, hands poised to strike, the ball of light spinning between his fingers and hitting Caleb’s chest and existing at every point in between. Caleb steps to the side and turns his head to see the shallow image impact a shadow version of himself, and then the comet trail of the real spell piercing through his duplicate’s chest and slamming into the door in an eruption of sparks.

“Well done,” Ikithon says. He nods stiffly.  

They practice a half hour more after that, and Caleb has no more trouble. The new magic comes easily, as it always does. He doesn’t miss the fact that Ikithon calls an end to their session precisely 55 minutes after they first entered the room. He’s not keen to find out what would happen should they remain past the end of an hour.

He gathers his fallen robes from the floor as Ikithon leads him through the door back into the office. At Ikithon’s prompt, he takes a seat in one of the armchairs, facing the little table with its newly exposed surface. When he glances back to the wall, the doorway is gone.

“I trust you learned something interesting from this experience,” Ikithon says, taking the opposing seat.

 _I showed you weakness, and you did not punish me for it. I offered you my throat, and you did not bite._ He’s learned, but he understands none of it. Though they’re out of the tiny room, the walls seem to fold in until the office seems just as small, just as inescapable.

Desperate for something to fiddle with, to calm his thoughts before he thinks something he’ll regret, he goes to pluck at the bandages around his wrists. But of course, they’re gone, and all that remains to pick at are the sequence of orderly scars. He traces his thumb over the lowest one, and begins to count, lining up the beat with his racing heart.

_One…_

“I don’t remember…”

_Two… three…_

“Maybe you can tell me…”

_Four… five… six…_

“How did I get these?”

He holds out his wrists for inspection. Ikithon leans forward.

_Tell me what kind of man you are, Trent Ikithon. Tell me the lie you’ve had all these years to concoct. Tell me the truth, that you held the knife yourself and you don’t regret a single slash. Tell me, so I know which side of you to hate above the rest, when I’m allowed to hate you again. Tell me, because no matter how much you claim to have changed, you carved the evidence of your nature into my skin. If I cannot erase it, then neither can you._

“Do you truly want to know?” He looks up at Caleb, and his eyes are dark. “It is not a pleasant story.”

Caleb huffs a bitter laugh. “My life has been full of unpleasant stories. What’s one more?”

Ikithon places his weathered hands beneath Caleb’s forearms and turns them back and forth so that the whole of the white lines are visible. His heavy sigh is tinged with a sorrow Caleb doesn’t share. “It was my greatest failure as a teacher that resulted in these scars. I had been hard on you, on all of my students. I had wanted to make you strong, and you were. All three of you – Astrid and Eodwulf, your classmates, and you, Bren, the best of them all – you were stronger than I believed possible. But you were also young, and I did not recognize the strain I put you under was too great for a young mind to bear.

“I confess that in the past I was harsh, cruel even. The night you got these scars, I had left you alone, abandoned in my office while I attended to matters outside the manor. The solitude was a punishment for some small offence, but I knew it would affect you more deeply than it would most others. I wanted you to feel abandoned, thrown aside, and I succeeded.” He pauses, and Caleb hangs onto the self-recrimination in Ikithon’s voice to keep himself steady. His ears are ringing so loudly that there’s no space for his own thoughts. All he can do is listen. “I had barely been gone ten minutes when Astrid’s message reached me. When I returned, I found her kneeling over your unconscious body. You had shattered a cabinet door and forced shards of glass into your arms, straight through to the bone. Not just one or two, but-”

“ _Fifteen_ ,” he supplies dumbly. Everything else is whited out – the room, Ikithon, the hands beneath his. Nothing remains but the scars, and the endless counting. 

“It was a horrifying sight. I have never been what you meant to accomplish. I am no healer, and it took all I had to close the wounds after Astrid helped to remove the pieces. I’ll never forget the way you shook, like a demon had entered your body. If I had returned only a few minutes later, you would have been dead.”

Ikithon lets out a long breath, and releases Caleb’s wrists.

“Is there anything of that night that you remember?”

“No,” Caleb lies, but of course he does. Of course he does. It was the worst night of his life, at the time. The blood running down his arms, and Astrid’s firm hands holding the wounds closed as she screamed for Ikithon into the empty air. He hadn’t been afraid of death, but in that moment, he’d been afraid for her, and what she would do if he didn’t survive.

As the fog clears, Caleb can’t even remember why he was angry. All he feels is sick. Why the fuck did he even ask the question? He doesn’t want to think about that night, doesn’t need the reminder that the only scars he retains from his past are the ones he gave himself.

It would have been so much easier to bear, if Ikithon had been the one to put them there. Easier if he hadn’t had to lie to Beau and Nott and pretend Ikithon had done this to him, like it would justify what he did to his parents in turn. Instead, he took his weakest moment and turned it into another lie, another justification, another excuse.

But there’s no one left to lie to anymore. There’s just Ikithon, and him, and no reason to pretend. Nobody left to lose.

And maybe… that’s for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all your patience! This isn't quite the longest chapter so far (I think Lessons has it beat by about 500 words) but it's close to it. There was a bit more to cover than I anticipated, considering this is basically one extended scene.


	10. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caduceus makes tea and plays hooky.

Caduceus keeps a careful eye on his companions as he picks over his breakfast plate. Most of the dish is taken up by a mound of steaming eggs, dripping with grease, and he can smell the lard the potatoes were fried in. Not a single fruit in sight. He may have to resort to creating his own food before long. Days of barely-touched meals have carried him into a slightly dozy state that’s perfect for meditation but not so great for thinking, and lightheaded is probably not what he wants to be right now. They’ve all got a lot to figure out, and his friends aren’t going to be much help, if his repeated failed attempts at drawing the two into discussion are any indication.

From Fjord, he always expects a certain reticence, but it concerns Caduceus that he’s only nibbling at his food, giving the illusion of eating without doing much more than moving the eggs around on his plate. That’s unusual behaviour for someone with a healthy sailor’s appetite. He’s deep in thought over something, that’s for sure, but Caduceus knows better than to ask directly. Fjord tends to clam up under interrogation, especially if he has any avenue to deflect the questions. Better to wait till the evening, to probe when tiredness forces a few of Fjord’s many walls to drop, or at least soften. An exhausted Fjord is generally the best conversationalist.

Both of them have been growing more accustomed to Jester’s silence over the course of the week. Maybe it’s the melancholy of their situation at work, but her failed escape attempt at the front gates certainly didn’t help the situation. He hopes she isn’t still put out by his and Fjord’s disapproving reaction. It wasn’t a bad idea entirely, but in the absence of any immediate danger to their lives, there’s no sense in taking unnecessary risks. Observe, evaluate, and form a plan. That’s the strategy they need to take.

He ponders their last conversation with Caleb as he chews on the withered remains of the remaining mushrooms from his stores, mulling it over for what feels like the hundredth time, searching for facets he might have missed. The way he spoke was _off_ in a way Caduceus can’t quantify. It spoke of more than the man’s usual trepidation. Thankfully, as far as Caduceus can tell Caleb’s worst fears about their situation turned out to be unfounded, or at least exaggerated. Ikithon hadn’t hurt him in any visible way, nor any of the Nein as far as he knows. He certainly hadn’t _killed_ them as Caleb had claimed he would.

Caduceus can’t help but feel there’s some vital piece of context he’s lacking. Maybe if he hadn’t missed so much of what was said at the river in Felderwin, he’d have a better idea of what exactly made Caleb so afraid of this man. He had promised to fill Caduceus in, but in the rush of the journey to Rexxentrum they never got the chance.

And then again, there’s the matter of the _hair_. Caduceus agrees with Jester wholeheartedly on that point: Caleb would not have cut it by choice. He can sympathize.  Over the years, he’s had many emotional arguments over his own hair, sharp words that seem petty now that his siblings aren’t here to draw them out. Would he forgive Clarabelle for the time she stuck maple gum behind his ear and ruined a year’s worth of growing it out, if it meant they could talk like they used to? He thinks so. She wasn’t the smartest of his brothers and sisters, but she was the most worldly, and he could very much use her guidance.

Fjord wants to manipulate his way out, Jester wants to force hers. Caduceus’s better sense cautions him to wait, to see what winds may blow, what tides may turn in their favour. But Fjord grows more reserved by the day, and Jester more despondent, and Caleb is a mystery all his own, and he doesn’t know how much longer they can afford to sit still. He may have to give the tide a little push, to help it along its way.

Right now, what he needs most is more information.

Jester bids him a solemn goodbye with a soft kiss on the cheek before heading off to Bahamut’s temple, and he pats her arm encouragingly. She’ll be alright. She always is.

If Fjord hears Caduceus’s farewell, he doesn’t respond. His shoulders are already squared towards the door, his stride self-assured and purposeful and utterly transparent. Fjord looks the most confident when he feels the most uncertain. Caduceus still doesn’t really know what he does in his lessons with the lightning mage, only that he’s _making progress_. Towards what, he hasn’t shared.   

 _Priorities_ , he reminds himself. Fjord isn’t the biggest concern. Fjord can handle himself, for the moment. Caleb is the one in the most precarious situation, so it’s Caleb he’ll focus on.

And the plants. He wants to understand the plants. They aren’t afflicted by the same corruption that crept over the Blooming Grove, but everything about their death sets his teeth on edge. Never mind the fact that someone is investing significant energy in maintaining the illusion that the garden is still alive, and well… it adds up to some very disquieting implications.

Maybe there’s a way to tackle both problems at once.

A table near the entrance to the dining hall holds a number of baskets for students to put their dishes before exiting. He’s noticed servants come by to collect the baskets periodically. Caduceus walks over and reaches into the emptiest basket. He pulls out a handful of the plates and moves them into the next. After a few repetitions, his chosen basket is packed almost to the brim, while the others hold little more than cutlery. Satisfied, he sits back down to watch, and wait.

Sure enough, within the hour a man in a simple tunic walks by the table and pauses next to the near-to-full basket. He grabs it and swings it onto his hip before exiting the dining hall. Caduceus shoulders his bag and follows.

It isn’t a long pursuit. One corridor leads into another, and Caduceus turns around a corner quick enough to catch a final glimpse of the man’s heel before it disappears into an opening in the wall. The sound of the clacking dishes fades, and Caduceus moves forward to investigate.

The opening is cut into the wall at a clever angle, disguised in such a way that someone could pass right by without noticing. Caduceus walks up and peers down into the dim light. He finds himself on the precipice of a narrow staircase. A warm glow spills out onto the bottom landing, highlighting the sheen of black onyx tiles that cover half the steps. Near the midpoint, the tiles abruptly transition to the same white hue as the hallway. There are even a few places where tiles are absent altogether, leaving patches of bare stone on the boundary between white and black. It would seem the refurnishing Elgon mentioned wasn’t fully completed in the end.

Caduceus descends, paying more attention to the light at the bottom and where it might be coming from than where he’s stepping. His foot lands on the first black tile and he draws it back in surprise as a sudden chill seeps into the bottom of his leather boot.

Since entering the Academy, he’s grown accustomed to the subtle warmth of the white tiles beneath his feet. He’d assumed it must be some amount of residual heat from the sunshine streaming through the many windows, and hadn’t thought much of it, but in contrast, the onyx tiles are almost cold. He moves down another step, and the coolness soaks into the soles of his feet like rainwater. It’s a nice feeling, akin to venturing out onto the year’s first bed of frost. After a few more steps, the chill is hardly noticeable.

The sounds of clanking metal and splashing water drift up from another opening at the base of the staircase, along with the occasional raised voice. He finishes his descent and prepares to peek his head around the corner.

“Well, come on, get in here! No dawdling,” a high voice calls out through the opening. Ah. No point in caution then. He ducks his head and steps into the next room.

A young woman in a stained apron hunches over an enormous washbasin that looks deep enough to bathe a few creatures at once. Threads of chestnut hair fly free of her twin buns, bobbing like cornstalks as she moves her arms under the water. She drags her hands back and forth beneath the surface, suds lapping at the tips of her rolled sleeves. A few other workers scuttle back and forth from a long counter, bearing loads of dishes. Some dump their dirty ones to the left of the young woman, others plunge their own hands into the water to her right and emerge with armfuls of sparkling clean plates that they ferry back to the counter. The smell of baking bread and fatty gravy and burning oil assaults his nose and behind the counter he spies hearthfire reflected in the gleaming skin of a dozen cooks, who dart between stoves and preparation tables in a haphazard flurry of activity.

“At the back, let’s keep it mov-” The young woman cuts off as she notices Caduceus’s towering form. She looks him up and down, taking in all seven feet of silk sleeves and beetle armor and pink shag. “Ah- uh. Can I help you?” She pulls her arms out of the basin and hurriedly brushes them over her apron. Most of the suds end up splashing onto the floor. “Marigold, take over for a bit,” she calls over her shoulder, and one of the ferriers puts down her armload of dishes and drops to her knees in the young woman’s place.

“I was hoping to make a cup of tea. Could I trouble you for a kettle?”

She looks towards the kitchen. A few of the cooks have paused in their dance to peek over the counter, ogling the strange visitor, but they scatter under her pointed gaze. “You could have asked one of the servants to fetch that. You didn’t have come all the way down here.” Her hands tangle in her apron, still nervously scrubbing away the last of the soapy water.

“I hope it’s not a bother.”

“No, not at all,” she insists, glancing back at the basin and the new washer, Marigold. A few stacks of dishes are starting to rise past the surface of the water on the left side, like little islands breaking through the surf. She grimaces and turns back to Caduceus. “Right this way. I’ll see if we have a spare.”

She leads Caduceus past the counter and into the large open kitchen. The curious cooks resume their dashing about, tending vats of stew and chopping bits of meat and potatoes and other sundries. His mouth waters at the sight of unsullied vegetables, and he feels a pang of regret at each handful tossed into liquid that reeks of animal stock.

“This seems like a busy place,” he observes as she brushes past one of the cooks and starts digging through a cupboard. The others stare at Caduceus with varying degrees of interest while nimbly dodging his tall form, calling out warnings as they pass. She eventually produces a small pot with a spouted lip that’s only slightly tarnished by rust.

“Will this work?”

“That’s perfect, thank you.” He takes the pot.

“What kind of tea would you like?” she asks courteously.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Caduceus says, waving his hand. “I brought my own.” He pulls out a handful of dried leaves from his pouch – the final serving of the Irian clan, a middling strain for taste but an excellent balm for nervousness - and an elegant steeper made from giant’s beard moss woven into a mesh of supple roots. If anyone checked his bag, they’d find an equally fine earthenware pot, well-seasoned from years of use: his usual tea-making apparatus. He does regret that he’ll be brewing the last of someone’s legacy with subpar equipment, but some things can’t be helped. “Where should I…”

She blinks, surprised. “Oh, uh, you wanted to… in here?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. Firemaking isn’t my specialty.” Nevermind the crystalline staff at his back and how a few gentle taps could have the set the pot boiling in seconds.

“Mine either,” she says, laughing a little and holding up her pruned hands. “I mean-” She catches herself, shoving her hands back into her pockets. It’s not hard to spot the source of her abashment: a red-faced woman with burly arms shoulders past the two of them, eyeing the young woman sternly as she passes. “Sorry. Fire, right.” She elbows the nearest cook. “Move, will you?” she hisses. “Teacher needs your stove.”

“Oh, I’m not...” Caduceus starts, but then pauses. There are certainly benefits to being seen with an air of authority. “Thank you,” he says again. “I won’t be long.”

The young woman nods and returns to her duties, leaving him standing over the small stove. He goes to start on the tea, but the former occupant of the station halts him with a hand on his arm before he can even put the pot down. He drops down and disappears into the same cupboard, crawling back out with a little box filled with gauzy strips of fabric.

He holds out one of the strips. Caduceus takes the fabric and looks back at him, nonplussed, and the cook mimes twisting and folding hair on top of his head.

“… Ah, right, of course.” He mimics the action, coiling his pink mane into a loose bun and securing it with the fabric. “Better?” The cook nods gratefully. It feels a little strange, but he can’t deny that it’s comfortable. Or at least, cooler. One of the other cooks giggles as she passes, clutching a tray of biscuits to her chest.

His cook fills the pot from a spigot on the wall and passes it back to Caduceus, who sets the tea brewing. He wishes the instrument was big enough to make two servings. A good cup of tea would be wonderful for his nerves, and maybe help a little of the lightheadedness pass. Something in your belly, even if it’s just tea, is always better than nothing.

Time to start the second ball rolling. “How long have you worked here?” Caduceus asks, hoping his tone is comes off as curious and not interrogative. The cook holds up one finger.

“He’s worked here about a year,” the cook at the next station calls over. Caduceus looks between the two men. “Sorry, Damon doesn’t really talk. Thought at first the Crownsguard cut out his tongue for slander or something, but I think that’s just how he is.” Damon smiles a sheepish grin, then points at Caduceus and raises his arms. “He’s asking you the same question.”

“Oh, I’m very new. Still getting a feel for the place.” Damon nods, satisfied. “The food here is very good,” Caduceus lies.

“We’re glad to hear it!” crows a different voice from further down the aisle. A ripple of laughter floats around the room.

Since he’s apparently got the whole kitchen’s attention, he addresses his next question to nobody in particular. “I was curious, is any of it grown on school grounds? Once I’m a bit more settled in, I was thinking I might like to start my own garden plot. Cultivating tea is something of a passion of mine.”

“Nope,” answers another voice from a few rows down. A green-haired woman pokes her head out, brandishing a wooden spoon. “Everything’s imported.”

“Oh? That seems a shame. There’s so much beautiful open space.”

“It’s on your head if you want to take it up with administration.” Caduceus glances back over to the burly-armed woman. Her face has lost a bit of its flush now that she’s stepped away from her stove, but her expression remains as stern as ever. “I tried for a solid year to convince Headmaster Valorna to let me start an herb garden. Just the basics, mind you, nothing fancy. Would have been ten feet of land at most. It damned near got me fired.”

Now _that’s_ interesting. Caduceus wanders over to her so that it’s clear who he’s speaking to. “That seems like a reasonable request. What did he have against the idea?”

“Who knows? Never got an explanation. Probably thought it ruined the perfect aesthetics of the grounds or some nonsense like that. Like that makes a difference to us. We’re down here all day anyway; it’s only for those rich bastards upstairs to look at.” She pauses. “No offense.”

It takes him a moment to figure out what he’s meant to be offended by.  “None taken.”

She shakes her head and angles to spit on the ground before thinking better of it. “Well, if you want to try with Headmistress Tross, be my guest. Who knows, maybe she’s got more sense. Either way, I’m not risking my job again over a few sprigs of basil. Also, your tea’s about to boil over.”

And indeed it is. He hurries back to the stove and takes the pot off the heat, pouring the steaming tea into a mug offered by one of the ferriers, who whisks away the empty pot and throws it into the washing basin.

“Thank you again for your time. All of you,” he corrects, and a chorus of acknowledgements ring out from around the kitchen. The burly woman snorts.

“Like the girl said, next time just ask a servant to fetch you a kettle. No need to come all the way down here amongst this riff-raff.” She swats another cook as he ducks below her arm to get past, and despite the aggression he can sense the fondness behind the bluster. “Hustle up, we’ve got thirty minutes until the afternoon crowd starts.”

Conscious that the bustle of the kitchen has moved on without him, Caduceus retreats to the staircase with his mug of tea. He nods goodbye to the dishwashers. The young woman gives him a little wave before plunging her hands back into the soapy water. Below the surface, amidst the shifting plates he can just make out the glimmer of some spell bouncing between her palms.

He steps back into the hallway of white stone, blinking at the relative brightness. The ground is warm again beneath his feet, heat subtle enough that without the contrast of the onyx tiles, he would never have noticed something was odd. But it _is_ odd. Caduceus sits on the top step and sets down the cup at his side. Then he places his palms on the floor, and concentrates.

A few minutes pass before his patience is rewarded. The sensation that pulses against his skin is faint, but familiar. It’s almost like the vibration of the amethyst in his staff, but lower, darker. The floor is alive with magic. It reminds him of another time, another place: the Diver’s Grave, and the barren stone of Dashilla’s lair. The walls there held the imprint of all the dark deeds committed on her bloody altar, an aura so unwelcoming he might have fled if it weren’t for his companions. The hum of the white stone sends the same uneasy chill through his thin frame. Nothing about this magic feels _good_.

The tea is growing cold, and staring at the floor isn’t going to give him the answers he seeks. Caduceus stands and ventures back into the empty hallway. It takes him ten minutes to find a student out of class to ask for directions to Master Ikithon’s office. He does eventually chase someone down, and the boy points the way to the ‘research wing’ before scurrying off.

The research wing, it turns out, is blocked off by a set of heavy doors. He gives one an experimental push. It doesn’t budge, nor is there any sort of release mechanism along the walls or in the wood itself. No handles either. If he had to guess, he’d say it was magically sealed. Obviously not meant for entry by the general student population.

Caduceus considers his options. He’s learned a fair amount already today. Whatever happened to the plants, it wasn’t a recent event. The previous Headmaster must have known something was wrong with the earth, otherwise why forbid the herb garden? Elgon might know more, and the halfling is probably expecting him to come by at some point (though he didn’t give Caduceus a set start time, nor does Caduceus really expect any consequences for being late).

The library is a prudent option. He could drink the tea himself, return to the sanctuary of books and conversation and deep thought. Observe, evaluate. Play it safe. It’s what he _should_ do. It’s what he told Jester to do.

Caduceus looks down at the mug between his palms. Caleb always thanks him so politely when given a cup. Caleb is alone right now, and probably feeling quite abandoned. And Caduceus can’t deny his curiousity about the closed-off wing. A locked door is, by its nature, very interesting.

He places his ear against the door and listens. No sound from the other side. No sound from the hallway he just left. Hmm. Caduceus reaches out to the wall and focuses. His fingers slip through the stone barrier, then his wrist, then his arm. He takes a deep breath on instinct and steps into the wall, and as soon as it closes behind him he begins carving. He emerges into another empty corridor, with a heavy wooden door to his back.

The whole of the research wing is his to explore.

\---

He didn’t exactly have a plan for finding Caleb once he made it to this side. Caduceus scratches his head, pondering the array of corridors at his disposal. His nails catch in the gauze that’s still wrapped around his hair.

There isn’t really an alcove to duck into, and his height would be prohibitive regardless, so instead he leans against a wall in what he hopes is a casual manner and begins cataloguing the spells that might be helpful. The only one that seems promising is Locate Object. Locate Creature would be better, but he burnt up most of his more potent magic shaping the stone behind the wall into something traversable, so lower level spells are all he has to work with.

He’d try for Caleb’s coat, but the last time he saw the man he was wearing new robes. There’s really no guarantee that he’ll have any of his old possessions on him, and Caduceus can’t afford many repeat castings if he means to exit the wing the same way he came.

The amulet? No, Nott has that. His holsters? They don’t really match the look of his new robes, not that that would deter Caleb necessarily. His spellbook? Now there’s a thought. If Caleb is studying with Ikithon like he said, he’d need it nearby. Caduceus closes his eyes and fingers a twig poking out from his breastplate, concentrating on the familiar leather-bound tome.

 _Ping_.

There.

Caduceus lets out a relieved sigh as the spell points him to a location a hundred or so feet off. He’s close.

The hallways of the research wing are much sparser than the main student thoroughfares. Most only contain one or two doors, with no decorations save the occasional painting, no windows, no sounds of muffled lectures or laughter from adjoining hallways. Everything is eerily still.

His spell can reveal the direction of the spellbook, but it can’t navigate the twists and turns for Caduceus, and he finds himself turned around more than once. He walks slowly, mindful not only of the time he has left in his casting but also the fact that there’s nowhere he can hide from any other occupants of the halls. If he means to remain unseen, the only defence he has is advance warning, so he keeps his ears open.

The first sound he hears beyond his own footsteps is a sort of distant, muffled whining. He freezes midstep. It’s coming from the corridor to his left. That particular corridor is not in the direction he wants to go. His goal is forward, and to the right.

The whining has a plaintive edge, like an animal in pain.

He looks towards the direction of Caleb’s spellbook, then again towards the corridor.

He turns left.

With quiet feet trained on more temperamental surfaces than tile, Caduceus pads forward till he comes upon a door. Behind it he hears more than just the whining: a pair of voices, fading in and hour of earshot as they move closer to and farther from the door.

“-infected? That’s a new one. Here, I wonder-”

“Worth a try.”

A pause, then the whine turns into a shriek, a sharp and frightened wail that pins Caduceus’s ears back to his skull.

“-not that. If the bite isn’t necrotic-”

“-worth sending him back?”

“Not sure how he much can do in this condition-”

Caduceus flattens himself against the wall, hoping to hear more.

“-quicker than fetching a new recruit, they’ve been better organized lately. Harder to get alone-”

“Might as well freshen him up before he goes back down.”

One of the voices moves closer to the door, the words growing clearer. “He’s still got almost a month left in him. I guarantee he won’t be alive long enough to need it.”

The handle of the door starts to turn and Caduceus presses closer to the wall. There’s no way he’ll make it back to the other corridor in time. He readies himself to slip into invisibility as soon as the owner of the voice emerges.

“I don’t make guarantees on anything I don’t understand, and I definitely don’t understand this bite. Let’s not take chances, hmm?”

The door handle floats back to its original position. Caduceus exhales.

“Guess not. Want me to-?”

The voices retreat farther back into the room and it gets harder to pick up whole sentences. Caduceus presses as close as he dares to the door.

“-will patrol the designated area, and defend-”

“-otherwise take no action, other than the ones ordered-”

 “-have no memory of this conversation taking place-”

“-acting of your own volition-”

The pained moans fade under the weight of the orders, until there’s nothing left but heavy breathing, and then three sets of footsteps approaching the door. Caduceus is prepared this time and manages to dart back around the corner before the door handle turns.

He keeps his back to the wall, but steals a quick glance back into the hallway once he’s sure the footsteps aren’t heading his way. All he manages to catch are the backs of three figures. Two are dressed in regal red robes, the other all in black, lagging to the rear and limping. The three turn around another corner and disappear.

The tracking ping on Caleb’s spellbook falls silent.

Caduceus startles in alarm. He’s got twenty minutes left on the spell, at least. There’s no way he could have been that off about the time. What on earth…

He still remembers the direction and distance of the last ping, but if his spell’s been cut off somehow that information loses its relevance by the second. Forgetting caution, he takes off down the corridor, clutching the tea to his chest and ignoring the liquid that sloshes over onto his feet.

Maybe twenty feet now – nearly there. Ten – it should just be around this bend, yes, a doorway, and-

“Who are _you_?”

Caduceus whirls. A pair of mages stand at the intersection of hallways. One holds some sort of equipment made of wires and tubing, the other a book.

“Ah, hello-”

“This area is restricted.”

“Sorry, must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.” He offers a wry smile that neither of the women returns. “I’m new.” The two exchange dubious looks.

“Come on, I’m sure the Headmistress will want to have a chat with you.” One of the mages grabs his arm and he jerks back instinctively. His fingers lose their grip on the mug and it falls to the ground, shattering into a constellation of clay shards over the white tiles.

“Sorry, that was clumsy of me.” He bends to gather the pieces. The other mage _tsks_ and pulls him back to his feet.

“Leave it, the servants will that clean up.”

He goes quietly. What else can he do? The only alternative is violence, and this isn’t the time for that, not yet. They lead him past the doorway, past where Caleb both is and, apparently, _isn’t_ , and then they’re back at the sealed wooden doors. All it takes is a whispered word from one of the mages and they swing outward.

He tries not to be too disappointed. He’s doing alright. He’s got information. Information is always good. And Caleb… he’ll see Caleb again soon. Things will work out. He’s sure of it.

He has to be, or else the anxiety of it all would become too much to handle.

\---

Flanked by attendants, Caduceus studies the relief of the planar system on the Headmistress’s door as he waits to be invited in. He’d at first thought the many planes were represented by coloured plates, but upon looking more closely he can see they’re formed from orbs of coloured glass embedded directly into the wood. Deep grooves of rose gold metal provide the fastening for each orb, as well as the ley lines that link the planes to one another in the diagram.

They’re not waiting long. One of the attendants cocks her head to her side, then nods at the other, and the two push the doors open. The relief splits down the middle as the doors swing inwards. _The Divergence_ , Caduceus thinks, and smiles to himself. Beau might have laughed at that.

Headmistress Tross sits at her desk, pouring over a thick notebook. She doesn’t even bother looking up from the papers as Caduceus climbs the stairs. Just like their first meeting, she conspicuously wears no robes. This time she sports a well-cut, but plain, suit of black and brown linen. “Sit,” she orders, and Caduceus does.

“How are you today?” he asks politely. She closes the book she’d been referencing and moves it to the side of the desk. Though the cover is blank, he manages to sneak a glance at the title printed on the spine before she slips it beneath a pile of folios.

_-antment Primer Level Three-_

“So, Mr. Caduceus. I hear you’ve been busy today. Bored with the library already?” She shuffles a few papers, not yet looking at Caduceus.

“Oh, not at all. The library is very nice, and Master Elgon is a fine teacher. It’s going well.”

“And was it part of Master Elgon’s instruction to break into restricted parts of the Academy?” she asks, just the barest hint of venom lacing her words.

“I didn’t know the wing was restricted, but my visit was of my own accord. I often find it helpful to take breaks from books and see a bit of the world around you.”

She finally looks up, fixing him with a glare that could wither the hardiest of weeds. “Don’t insult me, Mr. Caduceus. You’re not as simple as you pretend to be. What were you actually intending to do there?”

“Deliver a cup of tea.”

“A cup of tea,” she says flatly.

“I’m sure the remnants of the mug are still lying on the ground somewhere, if you wanted to take a look. Or maybe you’d like a cup yourself? My tea is quite good.”

Tross ignores his offer. “Who was this supposed tea for?”

“My friend, Caleb. I hadn’t seen him for a while and I wanted to make sure he was doing alright. I’m afraid he’s not always the best at taking care of himself. Forgets to eat sometimes.”

She looks at him like he’s lost all sense. “Who is Caleb?”

Caduceus frowns and tries again. “Mr. Ikithon’s acquaintance?”

“…You mean _Bren_?”

 It feels wrong to call a person by a name they’ve obviously abandoned, but for the sake of clarity… “Yes, I suppose I do. He prefers Caleb,” he reminds her.

“So you broke into a restricted area, past multiple safeguards, all to deliver a cup of tea to a friend. Forgive me if that sounds far-fetched, Mr. Caduceus.” She starts drumming one hand on the desk while the other slips into a drawer. “I suggest you start being honest with me.”

The charm presses into his mind not with the calming, honeyed warmth he’d expect from such a spell, but instead with the insistent prod of a burrowing insect. Easy enough to resist, easier still to _notice_ , and that catches him off guard more than the suggestion itself. He’s watched Caleb cast the same spell with such deft misdirection that even _he_ was unaware until the target began to behave strangely. Tross’s attempt, by comparison, is amateurish. It’s _clumsy._ And it’s the same trick she tried and failed to use on Beau. Why not switch to a different tactic after the first failure? She must know they’d be on guard against a second attempt.

“Of course,” he says. “I have no reason to lie.”

Who is this woman, who helms the most prestigious school of magic users in the Empire but can’t manage a simple Suggestion spell?

Her aggravation is as obvious as her lackluster casting. “How did you get into the research wing?”

“I walked in.” It’s not a lie, technically. It just required moving a little stone to open the path.

“The doors are sealed to everyone except authorized members of staff.”

“Mm. Someone must have forgotten to lock one. An honest mistake, I’m sure.”

Tross looks ready to start slamming her head into the desk. “Between you and that tiefling girl, I’m starting to wonder if any of you are worth the trouble,” she mutters. “But Master Kirn tells me she shows great promise, which makes me more inclined to overlook her transgressions than yours.” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest. “Do you want to leave, Caduceus? If you insist on shirking your lessons and wandering into places you don’t belong, I see little reason to keep you.”

 _Does_ he want to leave? He hadn’t realized it was an option, but then again, Tross had never seemed that interested in him to begin with. He doesn’t doubt her honesty here. If he’s not cooperating, she has no reason to keep him around.

She’s offering him the chance to go. So, does he want to leave?

He doesn’t like being cooped up below ground in a library full of books he barely has the context to read, let alone understand. He doesn’t like the prescribed food and how little of it he can stomach. He doesn’t like not knowing where Nott and Beau are, or if they’re safe and taken care of. And most of all, he doesn’t like living amongst the disguised remains of things long dead, their unholy presence tainting every breath he takes.

The answer is obvious: he wants to leave.

And he absolutely can’t.

Tross is happy to send him away because she doesn’t see a use for him. But Jester and Fjord and Caleb and Yasha? As long as they’re serving her ends, she’ll never let them go, that much is very clear. It’s the same plight as for any beautiful creature, the same reason he mourned for the caged animals they left behind on the road to Nicodranas. To be special is to forever fear the poacher’s net, and they’re already caught.

He wants to leave, but he’ll never discover the shape of this cage from the outside. Its twisting halls hold too many secrets for an outsider to guess. And without knowing the shape of it, there’s no hope of opening the door for anyone else.

“I’d like to stay,” he concedes. “And I do genuinely apologize for wandering where I didn’t belong. It won’t happen again.”

She doesn’t seem pleased with the answer, but she accepts it. “This is your only warning. Remember, there are hundreds who would give their life’s earnings to be in your position. Don’t squander the opportunity.”

“I don’t intend to. Speaking of which, I should probably return to the library. Master Elgon will be expecting me.”

“I’ll send one of my attendants with you, to ensure you don’t get _turned around_ again.”

“I appreciate it. Oh, one last thing…”

Since he’s here, he might as well ask. Tross groans. “What is it?”

“I hate to ask a favour, considering the circumstances, but I was wondering if I could start a little garden patch on the grounds. Firbolg magic relies heavily on organic components, and it would mean less hassle when my current stock runs low.”

“What do I care?” she says testily. She’s already pulling out her work again and re-arranging the pages. “As long as you do it on your own time, and out of the way of the footpaths; I don’t want it becoming an eyesore.”

“Thank you,” he says, bobbing his head. “It won’t bother anyone, I promise.”

No flicker of apprehension, no hint of deception. She doesn’t know about the poisoned earth. She can’t possibly know.

So how much _does_ she know, exactly? And how much did the previous Headmaster?

One thing’s for sure, the library now holds much more appeal than it did that morning. For every answer he’s gained, he’s turned over two more questions in its place.

Jester and Fjord have devoted themselves to their lessons, at least superficially. It may finally be time to do a little studying of his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caduceus confirmed for Overcooked 3 hazard.
> 
> I've been starting to clean up some of the earlier chapters, fixing glaring spelling mistakes and the like (my brain still refuses to accept it's spelled 'Felderwin' and not 'Felderwyn'). So far the only significant change was correcting mistaken references to the Cobalt Reserve in Chapter 2, which I forgot was a place and not the name of the broader organization. Don't want anyone thinking that was a hint to something ;) Special thanks to ossapher, who pointed out a particularly subtle mistake in Chapter 3. If anyone else notices a typo, feel free to point it out in the comments! It's hard to catch everything, no matter how many times I proofread.
> 
> Speaking of which, thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's commented so far. This fic is a long haul, longer than anything I've written in my life, and it's so much easier to stay motivated knowing that other people are as invested in the story as me. I have never been in a fandom that's so generous with feedback before, and I'm honestly humbled. Critters really are the best :)


	11. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau battles with Empire bureaucracy, and finally makes some progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something that I thought I should mention after Thursday's episode: there may be a small amount of incongruity between show canon and this fic's assumptions going forward. I started writing it before the party had even reached Assarius, and along the way I've tried to roll in various bits of new information where I could, but at this point I'm pretty much locked in on how the rest of the story will play out. I can't guarantee any new revelations we get about the Empire/Cerberus Assembly/Scourgers/Ikithon past episode 60-ish will strictly line up with that plan. That's the risk of writing alongside an ongoing show! Regardless, I don't think it'll end up being that significant a difference, but I wanted to offer the disclaimer.

The afternoon light finds Beau on the steps of her third order of business. She’d thought she needed the map to find it, but coming onto the street now she’s not sure she should have bothered. Anyone could spot the building from blocks away. The Dwendalian government doesn’t do anything in moderation, and its head office is no exception. It’s a beacon of ostentation; the Soltryce Academy is practically provincial in comparison.

Enormous marble pillars spiral up twenty feet to support a broad architrave, its face inlaid with a relief of the royal crest and bountiful fields of crops, depicting a time of plenty she’s not convinced the Empire’s ever seen. Trust the government to carve their propaganda right into the stonework. Plush red hangings loop across the front of the building and fold into awnings over the entranceway; Beau has to laugh at whatever poor sap got tasked with keeping the pigeons off the spotless velvet.

The steps are marble like the columns, but dotted with speckles of some smoothed gem embedded into the stone. Like lazurite, but with a hint of gold laced throughout. If this was Zadash, Beau would have expected to see hordes of students lounging over books or vagrants sleeping in the shade of the awnings, but the staircase is immaculate and unoccupied.

Four Crownsguard stand at attention near the entrance, armed with long halberds and bored expressions. Beau holds her head high as she walks up, ready to fight for her place in the invisible bubble of propriety that’s keeping the rest of the unwashed masses off the steps, but the guards don’t block her path. She keeps walking until she passes straight through the parting in the curtains.

Easy. Nothing to worry about. Tell that to her racing heart.

The atrium reminds Beau of nothing so much as a more opulent version of the moneylender’s association in Kamordah, and the association doesn’t exactly put her at ease. She spent plenty of time there shadowing meetings, back before her father realized involving her in his business affairs wasn’t conducive to anyone’s productivity. All she’d gleaned from that experience was that she and anything official didn’t mix, at least not without someone getting a black eye.

Eight booths flank each side of the vaulted room, with a red carpet laid out between leading into a wide set of oaken doors. There’s no one else waiting, and only one occupied cubicle, where a young man sits slumped behind the glass with his head in one hand. He straightens up as she approaches, smothering a yawn in the fold of his embroidered sleeve.

“How may I help you?” The red handprint hasn’t faded from his cheek. He must have been in that position for a while.

“I’m here to lodge a complaint.”

“Certainly,” he says with the detached exhaustion of someone whose entire day is spent dealing with difficult people and their difficult complaints. He pulls a sheaf of forms from below the desk and blots his pen tidily on a black napkin. “On whose behalf?”

“The Archive of the Cobalt Soul.” Beau shrugs Jester’s cloak off and watches the clerk’s eyes widen as he takes in her vestments.

“Ah… certainly,” he says, hastily regaining his composure. “What is the nature of the Cobalt Soul’s complaint?”

“Unlawful requisition of property.”

“I see, I see. And against whom are you filing this complaint?”

“Archmage Trent Ikithon, of the Cerberus Assembly.”

The clerk drops his pen. “I’m- I’m sorry?”

“Just ‘The Cerberus Assembly’ works too.”

“Let me… um, one moment.” The clerk rifles through his papers without really looking at them before darting off through a little door behind the booths, leaving Beau to drum her fingers against the glass. It would be just, _really_ great if she had Fjord, or even Caleb as backup for this kind of con, but there’s only her, so it’s her they’ll have to deal with, and it’s her who’s going to have to keep her nerves under control. After a few minutes, he returns with an expression no less worried than the one she just wiped from her own face, fiddling with a new set of forms.

“So sorry for that delay, Miss…”

“Beauregard Lionett, Expositor of the Cobalt Soul.”

“Right.” He swallows and makes a note on the first page. “I can collect your details now, but I’m not sure exactly how to resolve… in the past, the Cobalt Soul has always communicated directly with-”

“See, the thing is, I was _explicitly_ told by Headmistress Lirene Tross of the Soltryce Academy herself that I should lodge a complaint here. Are you saying she was mistaken?”

The clerk flushes red. “No, um, I’m sure there’s been a… well, of course. Yes. So sorry. Must be some procedure I’m missing. I just have to make sure this goes through the proper channels. Perhaps, if you come back tomorrow, my supervisor…”

Beau cocks back her hip, blowing air through her nose like a horse protesting the bit. _Undignified_ , the ghost of her father provides. Fuck off. “I think we’d all like to see this resolved as quickly as possible. For the sake of _civility_ ,” she says, flashing her teeth in a way she hopes comes out as confident and not pained.

“Right. Of course. First thing tomorrow. We’ll get this resolved straight away.”

She glares at him, channeling every bit of her father’s perpetually-dissatisfied air. “Fine. I’ll come find you, first thing?” He nods, looking less than pleased with the prospect.

Tomorrow. It’s a start. It’s _something_. More than she expected, really, and every day she waits is running a risk but moving too fast is a risk on its own. No stupid moves.

(Like she’s ever managed _that_ before.)

Beau tips her fingers at the guards on her way out. “See you tomorrow, boys.” They stand at the ready, unflappable as ever, but two of them dart their eyes towards each other, eyebrows quirked.

Beau heads back to the inn and spends the rest of the evening in the common room, nursing an ale and watching the front door for familiar skittish steps. She only heads upstairs when the bartender starts shooing people out, and by then it’s near to two in the morning. Her head is heavy from exhaustion but she lays awake a while longer, staring out the empty window and thinking about the last time she’d slept alone, that night on the Amber Road, in a little tavern off the beaten path. It was the night she met Jester and Fjord – two travellers just as road-weary but a little less sore, and it had been so easy to follow where the bright-eyed girl led. Just till the next town, then she’d be on her way. Just till the next, and then she was gone for good. Just till the next, and then there was an inn like this one, and a man and a little girl hunched over their drinks, and a tall woman, and someone in a bright coat...

She’s not even sure if she drifts off to sleep, in the end. Memories and dreams might as well be the same thing. Neither makes the bed less empty.

\---

Beau’s the first one in line the next morning, while the air is still chilly and the sunrise half an hour off. The same clerk notices her and waves her over unenthusiastically. He looks over his shoulder like he’s hoping someone else will magically appear to take his spot. “Um,” he says, “my supervisor isn’t in yet.”

“That’s alright,” Beau says sweetly. “I’ll wait.”

And she does, as the sunrise creeps up the steps and more of the citizenry filter into the atrium. Beau leans her back against the glass of the booth and glares daggers at anyone who makes towards her queue. They wander off to other clerks as hers shuffles papers anxiously and makes fretful eyes at his annoyed colleagues. She eavesdrops on the patrons of the adjacent booth with waning interest: wedding records, noise complaints, finalization of land deeds, taxation disputes. Her head starts to nod.

“Oh thank the gods,” her clerk mutters as a swish of black robes passes into the back room. “One moment, please excuse me.” He darts off after who Beau can only assume is the supervisor. Finally, a woman with a tight bun and tighter smile steps out and nods in Beau’s direction.

“Follow me, Miss Lionett?”

The supervisor leads her through another door - not the big oak ones, those have remained locked tight - and down a hallway into a little room with nothing but a table and a few chairs stacked against the wall. No paintings, no couches, not even a pitcher of water. Contrasted with the fine furnishings of the main entrance, this antechamber is not exactly high class. Typical bureaucracy: all pretty packaging and no follow through.

“I understand you’re here to lodge a complaint against a member of the Cerberus Assembly?”

“That’s right.”

“For… unlawful requisition of property.”

“Mhm.”

“What property would that be?”

“I hired a party of select individuals for an important errand, who the Cerberus Assembly saw fit to detain. Their services were purchased on behalf of the Cobalt Soul. I’d like them returned. Immediately.”

The supervisor looks up at her over horn-rimmed glasses. “I can certainly get that processed for you,” she says with the type of insincere pleasantness that tells Beau she’s about to hear a whole lot of bullshit wrapped up in decorum. “To get us started, I’ll just need some proof of your status with the Cobalt Soul. Any signed piece of documentation should do.”

Beau gestures down at her clothes. “This not enough for you?” The supervisor smiles lightly.

“I’m afraid not. This is a very serious complaint you’re leveraging. It’s important that it go through-”

“The proper channels, yeah, yeah, ok, cut the shit, lady,” says Beau, leaning in. “What are you looking for?”

The supervisor looks downright taken aback at Beau’s offer of bribery, which totally flies in the face of her experience with every other government official in the world. “Without the proper documentation, I can’t process your request,” the supervisor repeats. “That’s simply all there is to the matter.”

“Well, I don’t have it,” Beau growls.

“Then I’d advise you leave, and return when you’ve acquired it.”

“I’m not leaving until someone listens to my complaint.”

“Without the proper documentation, you may be waiting a long while.”

What was it that Dairon always said she lacked?

Patience.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Beau says, kicking back in her chair until it rests on two legs and folding her hands behind her head. “Do you?”

Right. Patience. That’s one way to bring someone around. Not exactly her favoured technique. Thankfully, there’s a counterpart method that’s almost as effective: being a total fucking inconvenience.

And that? That, she’s pretty good at.

\---

Another morning dawns and another morning she’s first in line to the same clerk’s booth.

“Look, my supervisor already said there’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry, Miss Lionett.”

“Then get me someone who _can_ do something.”

“… Fine, I’ll check.”

He checks. There’s still nothing they can do. The same supervisor comes back out and informs Beau of this fact personally before being called away to deal with another unsatisfied customer. The rest of the lines start to wrap around the atrium, and more and more people try to join her queue. A couple shoots her a dirty look as she waves them along. The man makes a rude gesture and she flips them the finger, then tells the clerk to check again.

By the fourth hour of the stalemate, she’s half expecting the Crownsguard to be called in to remove her. At least that would have made the afternoon less boring. Turns out the government doesn’t respect her attire enough to grant her request, but enough not to have her openly accosted in a public forum. If she wants a fist-fight, she’ll have to start it herself. Thank the gods for basic decency.

She crashes into bed that night with sore feet from standing still the whole day, and gets up before light the next morning. The clerk doesn’t even bother greeting her. He just presses his face back into his hands and groans.

\---

“Nope, sorry, nothing today.”

Damn it. The letter to Bladegarden definitely should have arrived by now, and the one to Zadash as well. Nicodranas will take a little longer, but she’d been hoping… well, she knows better than to hope.

“Right. Thanks, anyway.” Beau slips the postmaster a copper and heads back out onto the streets.

She had to forfeit her place in line to go check the post, and she’s not exactly pumped to go back to doing nothing for another eight hours, so she dawdles on her way to the center of town, taking in the bustling streets and watching, always watching, for hints of green amongst the crowd.

If she was Caduceus, she could cast a locate spell on Nott’s flask, probably find her in minutes. If she was Caleb or Jester, she could shoot messages into thin air and have at least a chance of getting a shrill response. If she was Fjord or Yasha, she could call on a patron’s blessing, make an offer, promise what she had in exchange for their help. Instead, she’s stuck with her human eyes, her stupid fallible sight that can’t even get pierce through darkness without magical aid. There are thousands of people in Rexxentrum, and none of them are as adept as Nott at not being seen. Literally _anybody_ in the group would be better suited to find her than Beau.

If Nott’s even still _in_ Rexxentrum, which is a big if. And even if Beau finds her again, there’s no guarantee Nott could do anything to help. She can’t break five people out of the Soltryce Academy alone, and it’s not like Beau could do much better on the espionage front. Her deal was always small time gigs. She never hit the big stops, definitely never broke into anywhere with known magic users, let alone a whole school of them.

They’d need a god’s intervention at this point, and Beau’s the most mundane of them all. The worst possible candidate for a miracle.

But what else has she got left to try?

Instead of the Dwendalian government steps, she finds herself back on the stoop of the same library where she’d found the map. After about twenty minutes of staring like an idiot at the enclosed glass case, the librarian wanders over.

“Looking for something in particular?” he asks, peering over her shoulder.

“Why the fuck isn’t there a temple to Ioun in this city?” she mutters, still searching the penned streets and their unhelpful landmarks. “It’s the goddamn capital. I’ve found Bahamut’s temple, Pelor’s, even the Raven Queen’s. Is this place too good for her?”

“If you’re wanting a temple to the Knowing Mistress, I’d advise travelling south to Zadash. They’ve got the Archive there.”

Her fingers leave streaks along the glass as she trails them down one street and then the next. She’s not going to find anything here. She’s wasting time.

“Nothing a little closer?” she says through clenched teeth.

He shrugs. “There used to be a temple to Ioun somewhere in the area, but nobody really remembers where it was. Least, it’s not on any map I’ve seen. One of those ancient, beautiful places; more a myth than anything. But a myth’s probably not what you’re looking for.”

Beau snorts. “Yeah, not so much.”

“If it helps, I could direct you to the nearest temple of Pelor? There are a number in the city, and the Dawnfather and the Knowing Mistress were said to be close. He may be able to offer the guidance you seek.”

Beau stares down at the useless map. One dead end after another.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

The librarian stares at her thoughtfully. “You know, there were rumours, oh, half a decade ago, that the Cobalt Soul was thinking of establishing a temple in Rexxentrum. Some sort of collaboration with the Cerberus Assembly, if you can believe it. I would have liked to have seen that - I’m a proponent of anything that brings more books into the city. The Academy library already has first claim to all the truly interesting tomes, and nobody from the public’s allowed in there. Figured if the monks set up shop, they might be willing to consider a lending agreement with my establishment.”

Beau isn’t exactly sure where this sudden rambling is going, but she’s intrigued despite herself. “I take it something happened to the deal?”

“I’m guessing diplomatic relationships fell through. Don’t remember a time when the Soul and the Assembly weren’t in a pissing contest. I was surprised to even hear about it in the first place. Somebody must have worked hard to get the conversation that far.”

Beauregard wasn’t in the Cobalt Soul five years ago, and she has no idea who would have been pushing for that kind of arrangement. There’s nobody she’s met - not Zeenoth, certainly not Dairon - who has any love for the Assembly. Frankly, the only person from Rexxentrum she’s ever heard anyone speak on remotely positively is the former Headmaster of the Academy, and he was removed before Beau joined.

“For what it’s worth, I wish the Knowing Mistress was being paid her dues. The Sanctum already gets more than its fair share. I swear, every year that place gets bigger. And the Academy swallows up every graduate they can spit out – just last month, I heard another two got selected. I don’t have anything against Bahamut, but he’s not the only god in town, so to speak.” He’s right at her side now, his stare never wavering. “I’m sure you’d agree. You’re Cobalt Soul, aren’t you?”

“Who’s asking?” Beau doesn’t reach for her staff, but she’s thinking very carefully about its bindings, and how quickly she can undo them. Jester’s cloak is still in her satchel, forgotten after days of proudly parading the vestments that gave her away.

“Just a concerned citizen,” the librarian says. “I don’t love the direction things are going. The Teeth control the streets, and the Academy controls everything else. Who knows what the government is actually running at this point? I wouldn’t mind a third party shaking things up a little.”

He’s educated, this man. Probably hard not to be, for someone who spends all their days with books. She’s gotten so used to talking to peasants and pirates and everyday, ordinary people that it’s an awakening to realize there are other eyes watching, that there are other folks out there with a grasp on the bigger picture.

“Well, that sucks, man. But don’t count on me to change things. I’ve got my own problems to work out.” _I haven’t got time to fix a city, hell, an_ empire _. I haven’t even figured out how to save my friends._

“Hmm,” he says. “You’ve got your own business, sure. But these things tend to trickle down. What isn’t your problem today might be tomorrow. I would hope a follower of Ioun would understand that.”

She can’t help the anger that burbles up, as much as she can’t help the situation she’s in. Who is this person, to tell her that she’s not doing enough? Who is he to tell her what she needs to fix?

“Thanks for your help,” she forces out through gritted teeth. “I won’t bother you anymore.”

“Right,” he says, and he’s not angry, but by the look of his cold eyes he’s on his way to it. She pushes past him and back out into the street.

She needs a place to think, somewhere where she isn’t in the middle of all these people that aren’t the right people, the people she needs to see.

Beau follows the street to the nearest spoke and ends up back on the main road they followed the first day in Rexxentrum. The most crowded place in town, and the opposite of what she’s looking for. Darting around vendors and between the rows of soldiers, she searches for an alcove, anywhere to clear her head. Everywhere is packed, except…

There’s a tall building, sandwiched between dwellings and stalls. She can’t see past the top at the roof but the walls are curved at the corners, melding into bricks of rough clay that might have been painted once. The gloss has chipped away, leaving broken leaves of garish colours smeared across the walls. The doors are all boarded up with nails and sawed off planks, but there are open windows somewhere past the third story.

Perfect.

Reasonably certain that nobody’s paying attention, Beau does a cursory scouting mission around the outside of the building. No ladders or stairs, but plenty of grooves for handholds - even better. She picks the side best disguised by the neighbouring buildings and starts to climb. It’s hardly a challenge to reach a window. Beau pivots and slips inside without looking at where she’ll land, focusing instead on getting over the sill as quickly as possible without being seen. Her feet kick for purchase on the other side and find it easily enough, some ledge hard and flat enough to risk dropping down. She lands in a crouch, and turns to inspect where she’s ended up.

Instead of the darkened interior of an enclosed room that she’d expected, she finds herself instead in the stands of a massive open amphitheatre. The ceiling domes slightly to provide a little shade over the stone seats, but most of the roof is open to the sky, casting a bright disc of sunlight onto the sandpit in the center.

Beau climbs down a few rows to get out of line of sight from any nearby buildings. The seats are littered with dried rat droppings and flakes of plaster that crumble beneath her feet. No sign anyone’s been in to clean recently.

Hanging above the boarded-up entranceway is a massive plaque inlaid with the same symbol of the Dwendalian Empire as the government building. The pit is stained with streaks of dark black ichor, turned over but not erased. Story-tall openings ring the arena, protected by iron gates and leading off to places the sunlight can’t reach. Everything is totally empty, utterly silent. Beau sighs and sinks down onto one of the seats.

With hands folded beneath her chin and elbows resting on her spread legs, Beau lets her head drop. She focuses on the still air and the absence of noise. She focuses on the stone beneath her, and the feel of skin against cloth, and the smell of must and sand.

“Look,” she starts. The dusty air coats her tongue and she coughs, then tries again. “I don’t… I don’t know if you’re listening. Or if that’s even a thing you do.” The embarrassment burns her throat as much as the sand. Look at this idiot, talking to the open air like it’ll talk back. “I don’t know how to do this. But I’m asking anyway.”

The still air, the silence, the stone, Dairon’s face. Focus. “You’re supposed to know everything, right? That’s why they call you what they do? Well, I’m not asking you to tell me everything. I’m not asking you to give me some holy vision quest, or braid my hair, or smite my enemies with your divine fury. I just want to know one thing.”

Something flashes in the corner of her eye. Dark. A bird, maybe?

_Focus_.

“Am I doing the right thing? Or am I sitting on my ass for nothing? Cause I don’t know what to do if it isn’t this. Fuck, I don’t know much of anything. Don’t even know if you’re listening or not.”

Her voice has dropped below a whisper, to a thin hiss of air between her palms. “So, yeah. That’s what I’ve got. If you’ve got something to tell me, I’m all ears.”

Beau raises her head. The amphitheatre is as empty as it ever was, and for a moment, just for a moment, she could swear she hears a murmur in her periphery, a sensation of-

There it is again. A flash of something dark. Just beyond one of the metal grates.

Something’s moving down there.

Shit.

Heart pounding, Beau stands and cranes her neck towards the disturbance, but whatever was down in the pit is gone now.

Yeah, that’s enough of the creepy abandoned arena for one day.

Beau backs up slowly, keeping her eyes on where she saw the flash of movement up until the moment she can duck back through the window, and she’s running as soon as her feet hit solid ground.

By the time she makes it back to the government office, it’s past noon and a few people have managed to slip into her designated line. Bastards. The clerk looks happy though. She’s never seen a man so relieved to be allowed to do his menial job.

She settles back down in her place, no more sure of what she’s doing than she was the day before. But then again, no less sure either. The atrium is too loud to hear Ioun’s answer even if she gave it. But either way, Beau feels better somehow, for having asked.

\---

The next morning, the clerk is gone from his desk. In his place sits a man with a dark, bushy beard. Beau frowns, crossing her arms.

“What happened to Freckles?”

“I assume you’re Miss Lionett, our resident monk? Come, follow me.”

He leads her back through the same hallways, back to the same unassuming little room with its desk and piled chairs. His robes are of the same ilk as the clerk and the supervisor, but shinier, with more embellishments. He’s high up, which either means she’s getting her request or she’s getting arrested. “We received a missive from the Archive.” He pulls out a small rolled scroll. “Signed by one Archivist Zeenoth.”

Beau’s stomach drops into freefall.

_Don’t you dare fuck me, Zeenoth. Don’t you dare. Not on this._

She waits in breathless anticipation as the man unrolls the scroll across the desk. “It bears the official stamp of the Archive, and instructs the offices of King Dwendal to treat Beauregard Lionett as a trusted member of the Soul, and to comply with her requests.” The man rerolls the scroll. “The documentation is sufficient. On behalf of my staff, I do apologize for the delay. State the names of your requisitioned party, and I’ll personally see to it that you receive the information you seek.”

Beau tries not the let the relief show on her face. “Jester Lavorre. Fjord, no surname. Caduceus Clay. Yasha, no surname.” She stumbles on the last name. “Ca-Bren. Bren Ermendrud.”

“Excellent,” he says, dotting the last stroke on the form with a flourish. “Wait here while I process these.”

And wait she does, for ten minutes, then twenty. Beau furiously paces the room, trying to keep a hold on the contents of her stomach.

When he returns, it’s with a single piece of paper. “Thank you for waiting.” He puts the paper down on the desk, and Beau glances over it. She knows that handwriting. She recognizes it from the clipboard in Tross’s hands.

“I see that your party was indeed requisitioned by the Soltryce Academy, under the authority of Archmage Trent Ikithon. Ms. Lavorre, Mr. Fjord, Mr. Clay, and Mr. Ermendrud, along with Ms. Beauregard are all listed as having entered the Academy six days ago, with Ms. Beauregard released the following day. Does that sound correct?”

Beau nods. “And Yasha?”

The man twirls his beard thoughtfully. “There was no record of any person named Yasha in our archives.”

“She was… requisitioned the same night as the rest of us.”

“Ms. Lionett, I checked the records myself. There’s no mention of anyone other than yourself and the other four as having been detained that night. I can only surmise she must have been released before yourself. Now, as for the rest, I can’t have them remanded into your custody, but what I _can_ do is file a motion to the petitioner’s court. It’s…. unusual, to say the least, given the plaintiff and the subject. But a court-appointed mediator is the most fair-”

Beau is barely listening over the rush of blood in her ears.

Yasha.

No record of Yasha.

When she disappears, she leaves no trace. Beau is (should be) used to that by now. Except this time, someone’s erased her tracks.

“Is this satisfactory to the Cobalt Soul, Ms. Lionett?”

“What?” Beau shakes herself, focusing back in on the conversation.

“All necessary preparations will be made. Please be ready to present your case on the appointed date, once we confer with the Assembly, and confirm the matter of availability.”

“What?”

He looks at her strangely. “Archmage Ikithon’s availability? He’ll need time to prepare his case as well.”

…

Oh.

Oh, _shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a good chunk of this chapter ages ago, at the same time as the previous Beau chapter, but for pacing reasons it didn't fit till now. It was torture seeing the chapter sitting at the bottom of my (ever-growing) doc each week, knowing how much fun I had writing it but also knowing that it wasn't the time to post it _just yet_. Guess I had to learn a lesson about patience too :)


	12. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yasha reaches out, and Yeza reaches back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What with the new job, I've been trying to work out a writing schedule that meshes with the longer commute. Most of this chapter was written on my lunch breaks, which weirdly enough seems to be working ok? It's kind of nice to write when I'm still vaguely awake, instead my previous schedule which usually involved coming home exhausted and plunking myself down in front of the keyboard. Time will tell!

In the darkness, Yasha loses sense of time.

It may have been hours, or days, that she has been in this chair. The ache in her jaw has long faded to numbness, and her tongue alternates from bitter dry to cotton-flaked to a lead weight at the bottom of her mouth, held beneath the strip of fabric that cuts into the corners of her lips with a muted sting.

There’s nothing to focus on. No sight, no smell, no comfort even from little songs that flutter in the confines of her wordless mouth. All she has are the small noises of Yeza moving about, so close and yet out of reach. She focuses in on his footsteps, learns their cadence, imagines what manner of person they must belong to. He is the one real thing in a sea of nothing. She has to hold onto him, or she’ll go mad.

Yeza. What kind of creature is he? Does he have brown hair or black? Curly or straight? Nott may have said. Yasha doesn’t remember. She barely remembers what black or brown look like. The world has narrowed down to shades of grey.

He is short, she reminds herself. He would be Nott’s height, or perhaps a little taller. He would come up to her thigh at the highest. By Yasha’s side, everyone is small.

(It worried her at the beginning, that she might fall in combat and take someone else down with her in the descent. Lucky then, that Nott kept out of the way. Lucky that Yasha’s body, which knows only too well how to hurt without intention, was always alone at the forefront of the battle.)

There are times when he drifts closer, and in her mind’s eye he is floating: this brown-black-curly-straight haired Yeza with no face, and stolen buttons sewn into his sleeves. He walks on a cloud of white, or black, or grey, but his feet don’t touch the ground. There is no ground to touch. His hands are shaking, that much she can feel, and they meet her skin and she comes alive. His touch is proof that she is real, that she exists, that she has a body, that she hasn’t yet disappeared.

The hands press a needlepoint into her arm again and while the hot blood seeps from her skin he apologizes, over and over. She doesn’t know why he’s doing this to her but if she had a mouth that could speak, she’d tell him, _I understand_. _You need to survive. Your wife needs you to survive. Your child needs you to survive. I forgive you what you have to do._ But she has no voice, and the muffled sounds she makes send him stumbling back panting little breaths of alarm. Even chained and helpless, Yasha is a fearsome sight to behold.

She speaks, or fails to, and he reacts to that, and so she knows she is real. She exists. She has a body, and it belongs to her. They pass the minutes-hours-days like this, with him venturing closer and stumbling away, and her wondering what she is meant to do with this chance.

All she has is a name. Who is Yeza? What can she say without words that he will understand?

She sometimes hears other things that are harder to place: bubbling liquid, the scritch of pen against paper, spitting sparks and a low hum. Her mind conjures images to replace the ones it lacks, of roaring flames and drowning surf, of places she’s never been and places she has, without any reason as to why she pictures one over the other. Some of the sights are pleasant, even comforting. Most are not.

No matter what vision her mind provides, she can’t shake the sense that there’s something lurking just off her periphery, out of sight. A shape without form, the hint of glowing eyes and a leering grin that pierces down to the depths of her soul. If she holds her eyes closed until kaleidoscopic swirls replace the grey, she can banish the shape for a minute or two, but it always returns: the one constant amongst the rest of the jumbled images. A children’s nightmare of a demon lurking in the dark, brought to life by paranoia, maybe. Though the presence feels intimately familiar, it can’t possibly be real. Yeza would have mentioned a third occupant. She would have heard it enter the room. That is, unless it had always been here.

This is her body, and it belongs to her, but her mind has recently been a more uncertain thing.

\---

The voice of the woman who brought her to this place eventually returns, accompanied by the creaking of a door and the shuffle of feet.

“Did she give you any trouble?”

“No,” Yeza squeaks. “No, she was… she was fine.”

There are hands on her again without warning, and she doesn’t want to fight but she still pulls away as far as the bonds will let her. The chair mattered little to her imagination, but it is very present at her back now.

“And do you have what I asked you to make?”

“Yes! It wasn’t really challenging, just a different application than I’m used to.”

The clink of glass, and a popping noise. “No side effects for this one?”

“Shouldn’t be. At least, I don’t think so.”

“Good. Hold her still.” The hands tighten their grip. “Each morning, you will administer a dosage to the prisoner. You may use force as needed, but do not cause unnecessary damage. Other than that, continue with all previously assigned duties. As always, you will have no memory of this conversation taking place. The actions you take are of your own volition.”

A hand presses something soft beneath her nose, and with her mouth full of the gag there’s nothing to do but breath in. Whatever they’re holding there burns worse than sand, worse than drowning, but for a moment. Then the sensation smooths to something cool and the visions and sparking patterns quiet, and left in their wake are sharp teeth and red eyes, and she’s-

\---

Yasha wakes to stabbing pain in her spine and a jaw that grinds with every turn of her head. Her eyes open to blackness yet again.

But-

But she _can_ open her eyes.

She takes a deep breath through a mouth that’s finally clear of fabric. Her tongue tastes of flavours she can’t remember swallowing - animal stock, garlic, water gone stale and metallic. Cause for concern under normal circumstances. Now, it’s a relief beyond measure, just to taste anything at all.

She’s lying unbound on a familiar bed, and her dismount is more graceful the second time for knowing the shape of the room she’s in. The same strip of light teases her vision, drawing her closer with the promise of sights more real that what her mind could conjure. There it is: the empty hallway, and when she turns around to face the rest of the cell, the outline of the iron chair, the table, the bed. It would be easy to believe her time with Yeza was all a dream, if not for the raised bumps at the crook of her elbow.

She was expecting to be groggy after whatever they’d drugged her with, but instead she’s filled with the same punching alertness that comes of too much drink and a premature sleep. The world is almost uncomfortably present, a hyperawareness that straddles the edge of euphoria. And amidst the buzzing floats an idea, half-formed in the dreaming world and slipped free into the waking one.

Well, one idea, and a fraction of another.

It’s a start.

Yasha avoids the chair as she paces around the perimeter of the room. She doesn’t know how long she has, how long till the next day comes and it all begins again. What does she have to work with?

Everything is bolted down save the blanket that lies crumpled at the end of the bed. Her pockets are empty, her sword gone. The only traces of metal left on her person are her earrings – sturdy iron things hammered into full moons and fused solid at the back. She’s never removed them before. It isn’t something that’s done in her tribe. Once they’re in, they’re meant to stay for life. They might be lost in the clutch of teeth or the grasp of errant branches, but they were never removed by choice.

Yasha presses her fingers to the ridges of cool metal, feeling her way down the line. It will hurt, to tear one out, and the knowledge sends sympathetic shivers down to her toes. It will hurt, and the blood will be noticeable, and she absolutely doesn’t want to do it if she doesn’t have to.

Something cold brushes against the heel of her hand – an oblong bead of pressed steel fixed into a matted lock of hair, holding a series of wooden ones in place. The ornaments have so long been a part of her that she often forgets their existence. How long has it been, since she last cut her hair, since she strung the first of the beads into place?

(She knows exactly how long, because they were not her hands that held the knife.)   

The strands below the beads are impossibly dreaded after years of neglect, and an experimental tug does nothing to dislodge the metal piece. She settles for picking the mats apart, inch by painful inch, first standing then crosslegged on the bed, teasing apart wiry gnarls and shifting the bead down with rough tugs. She snaps the strands where she can, and by the time the bead finally falls into her numb hands there’s a collection of split ends gathered in her lap. She carefully stuffs the evidence under the mattress, along with the wooden beads that came off easily after the metal one surrendered.

Yasha untangles a leather lace from her bracer and loops it through the bead before rethreading the lace backwards through the holes. The steel dangles loosely from her wrist, just at the lever of her fingertips, and she stuffs the bead beneath the bracer with her free hand, prodding the exposed loop of leather a few times to ensure the placement is right.

Not a moment too soon. The door creaks and Yasha drops back down to the mattress like a stone, curling her body towards the influx of light. She holds her breath, and prays that the last two hours of painstaking work were in vain. If this moment goes well, it will be a thankfully wasted effort.

Through her fingers, she watches the familiar black-garbed figures approach and counts their steps towards the bed. Four, three, two, one…

Yasha catches the man’s wrist before it can press the cloth and its noxious scent to her nostrils. He barely has time to let out a grunt of surprise before she’s on him, pinning him to the ground and slamming his shoulders once, twice, three times against the stone. He goes limp in her hands and she launches herself off the unconscious body towards the other guard, her momentum slamming into his shins. He overbalances and falls into the side of the chair. The silver blade in his hand clatters to the floor, and Yasha doesn’t wait around to see if he manages to pull himself back up. She runs.

The light burns her eyes as she tears out through the doorway, sprinting down the hallway as the soft patter of pursuing footsteps spurs her pace. She’s tall, and quick, and it’s a matter of seconds before she reaches the end of the corridor and wheels left into the unknown.

Stone rushes by as she pelts through the new corridor, heedless of the ruckus she’s making. There are no markings on the walls, no doors, nothing at all but her own laboured breathing and the heat that grows more pressing with every step. Yasha spares a glance over her shoulder and the pursuing guard is closer than he should be. She’s quick, but he’s impossibly quicker, and Yasha roars in frustration as she pushes on.

Ahead lies a crossroads – a intersection with corridors leading to the left and to the right and straight on ahead, and there is no time to contemplate what she remembers of the blindfolded march of the previous day. If she hesitates for a second, she’s caught. Without thinking, Yasha tears off to the right.

It takes all of three steps to realize she’s made the wrong choice. The heat is more persistent in this direction, the air more inhospitable. Nothing good waits for her along this path, but the danger that follows her is certain. She has no choice but to keep running.

The new hallway isn’t lit and fades into cave-like dimness, but not for long. The end of the corridor comes into sight with a dull red haze splattered across stone and something about the atmosphere feels _wrong_ , but she barrels on through the opening into the chamber beyond.

Her foot catches the edge of something solid that splinters against her weight and she goes down hard, her knees landing amidst a clinking mass of metal as her hands scrabble for purchase along the strange dimensions of whatever she’s fallen into. In the red haze she finds herself splayed over a box of fractured, rotting wood, almost the dimensions of a lidless coffin, and inside…

Chains. The entire bottom of the box is lined with chains and two sets of rusted, empty manacles. She doesn’t need to try them on to know they’d be a perfect fit.

She lifts her eyes to survey a sea of open boxes, row upon scattered row right up to the base of distant stone steps, and that’s as far as her vision reaches before a cloth covers her mouth. She swears in her last moments of consciousness that a dark figure appears on the steps, its glowing eyes and leering grin sunk into a familiar face, and the outline of black wings lit all behind in red.

\---

“-evidently need something _stronger_.”

Yasha groans awake to the sound of Yeza’s nervous muttering behind her.

“I don’t know what happened, the dose should have been plenty-”

“Clearly you were mistaken. Look, she’s up _again_. What was that, four hours this time? It’s barely worth the effort. I expect better results from your next attempt.”

“I- I understand.”

“Good. I look forward to seeing those results this evening, along with the first samples of your revised formula.”

The afterimages of manacles and dark wings still burn behind her eyelids, but the chains that hold her to the chair are more immediate, more pertinent. The bonds are tighter than they were before. Her captors will be more careful with her now that she’s proven herself capable of escape.

She hears a door open, and two sets of retreating footsteps, and Yeza’s short breaths growing louder and less restrained as the footsteps abruptly disappear. Yasha takes a deep breath and tries to recenter herself, to focus not on the failure but on what comes next.

What does she know of Yeza?

He’s a timid soul: frightened of her and more frightened of the ones who give him orders. It won’t be long until he’s too nervous to approach her at all, if they don’t deem her too much trouble to keep before then.

Yasha waits until the bubbling resumes and she’s sure Yeza isn’t anywhere close by before curling her fingers towards her wrist. The angle is awkward and her wrist contorts to near dislocation as she stretches towards the confines of her bracer. The iron bindings cover most of her forearm, forcing the metal bead into the divot between bones and veins, but the tip of her middle finger finally brushes the loop of leather. She crooks it until the nail catches in the loop and tugs. After a few breathless slips, the bead slides free and falls into her palm.

So, what does she know of Yeza?

He would come up to her thigh, and this chair is made to hold creatures her height. Wincing at the strange new angle, she curls her hand around the side of the wooden armrest as far as the bindings allow, holding the bead between two fingers.

Carefully, Yasha begins to carve.

The process is far from smooth, and it takes twenty strokes before a groove even begins to sink in. She has to feel for the termination of the first line before starting the second and misses the mark by half an inch, but doesn’t notice till the second groove is nearly complete. It will not be beautiful. It may not even be legible, but it’s the best she can do.

Between cycles of blood-taking and retreating steps she carves, and any lingering fear of dark shapes and leathery wings is lost in the monotony of the movement, and the simple repetition of the question:

What does she know of Yeza?

What does she know of Yeza?

What does she know?

At last, she brushes the curve of her knuckles across the message: four simple letters. All she had space for. All that matters.

Yasha holds the bead in her palm and begins to tap.  A simple, unadorned rhythm; a song, distinct enough from the other sounds in the room to maybe draw his attention. Two quick taps, then two more, then one. Repeat.

She has no way to know when he notices the tapping, but the shuffle of small feet is unmistakable and she unfurls her fingers and jabs them downwards. The footsteps halt, then step closer, and anxious sweat pricks the corner of her eyes as she holds her breath and waits.

The whisper comes like wind through grass, light and fearful and full of dawning hope.

“Veth…”

What does she know of Yeza?

He loves his wife.

He loves his wife enough to do something truly reckless. Enough to risk his own safety for a fool’s hope, a beggar’s chance.

“Do you know Veth?”

She knows that about him, because she would have done the same.

His hands are at the back of her neck, hurriedly untying the knots until the gag falls into his trembling grasp. She gags and buckles forward as the fabric pulls away and she can finally speak.

 “Friend-” Yasha chokes out in a broken rasp. “I’m her friend. Veth’s friend.”

 “I don’t- that can’t be true,” stutters Yeza, disbelieving. He takes a step back. “How is that possible?”

She blurts out the first thing that comes into her head. He can’t run, not when she’s _so close_. “She wanted you to know that she was sorry. For not coming back. She’s sorry.”

“Oh,” Yeza breathes like all the air in his lungs has been punched out at once.

“She took us to the house in Felderwin, but you weren’t there.”

“Where- where is she? Where’s Veth?”

Yasha squeezes her eyes closed. “We were trying to find you. We got separated.”

“But she’s… she’s close to here? She’s coming?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I hope so. Could you-” and she bites her tongue to stop it from betraying the waver in her voice, “could you undo the blindfold? Please?”

At first it seems like he’ll refuse and her heart sinks down into her toes, but finally he seems to come to a decision.

“Yeah, ok. I can do that.” Once again the hands fumble with the knots, and then the strip of fabric lifts away from her eyes.

A humble halfling stands before her. Dark brown curls, ruddy skin, clothes simple but not unkempt. He fixes her with an unguarded stare,  reckless hope tempered by obvious wariness.

“Yeza,” she says, and he recoils, but a little more of the mistrust falls away. “…It’s nice to meet you.”

“Um, you too.” He starts to nervously shift, glancing between Yasha and the blank wall she faces. Taking advantage of the sight while she has it, Yasha catalogues the room, starting first with her own situation. She’s bound to the wooden chair by heavy bands of iron, both hand and foot. There are no obvious weaknesses, save the padlocks that fix the bands closed, and she turns her head to the rest of the room.

It’s a simple space, constructed of wooden planks walls pressed down into a stone floor, sparsely furnished by necessity as much as by function: there would hardly be space for much furniture beyond what it already holds. To her left sits a table covered with an enormous apparatus of tubing and fire-heated plates and bubbling glass flasks, held together by thin rope and no small amount of ingenuity. If she cranes her neck, Yasha can just make out the shape of a bed against the back wall, and a small nightstand.

One conspicuous absence in the décor: no doors. No windows either. All of the walls are empty.

“You know Veth.” Yeza stills, but keeps a careful distance. “You’re not the one who’s been talking to me, though.”

“That was Jester. There are a few of us,” she offers at his confused stare.

“Are they coming here too?”

What was that that Ikithon had said? Beau chose to leave. But where does that leave Jester, Fjord, Caleb, Caduceus, Nott? Did Nott even get away?

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly.

Yeza frets his hands, and Yasha glances down at the bindings. It’s too much to hope that Yeza has the key.

“Why are you here?” That’s the first question she might have a prayer of getting an answer to. “Why did they take you?”

“Ah, well-” Yeza starts, looking vaguely uncomfortable in a wholly different way than before. “There were people I was doing work for – government folks. Very important stuff, they told me, and when the Cricks attacked-” he flinches as the slur leaves his lips, but doesn’t call it back, “-I don’t know, I guess they were worried I- we- would be a target?” His eyes open impossibly wider. “Luc- did you see Luc? Is he ok?”

“We saw Luc,” she reassures him. “He’s safe.” As far as they know. They left the boy with Edith, but the fields are still burning, and one failed attack doesn’t preclude a second. If the Kryn have the numbers to try again, they will. Her countrymen are nothing if not determined.

“Oh, thank the gods,” he breaths out. “That’s such a relief.”

“Why did the Kryn want to take you?”

“I guess it must be because of my work for the Assembly?” He gestures back at the table. One of the beakers begins to hiss ominously and Yeza darts over to pull it off the flames. “I don’t know why else they would have come after me. I’m nobody. Really, nobody.” He shakes his head. “Lady DeRogna said it was safer for me to continue the research in the capital, but I don’t have the equipment here I had in my own laboratory. I’m not making the progress I’m supposed to. She’s really unhappy with me.”

He freezes, looking at her as though he’s made some horrible realization.

“But, uh, you aren’t- you aren’t with the Assembly, are you? This isn’t a test?”

She could tell him that it doesn’t matter what she says, because she has no proof to offer. She honestly doesn’t know enough of Nott to prove any relationship with Veth. All she has is honesty and a name. If that’s not enough to convince him, then there really is no hope.

“I promise, this is not a test. The Assembly is holding me here, just like you. We’re both prisoners.”

He shakes his head. “I mean, they’re not… they’re not holding me, really. It’s for my own protection.” Yasha sees in his eyes a man desperate to hold onto the lie that makes the horror of reality bearable. “And I did promise them that I’d do this. It’s supposed to be really important for the war, and now Xhorhas really has attacked us…”

Yasha curls her fists into the wood. He’s rationalizing, and she’s losing time, and who knows how much she has left before their captors return? She musters up all the hardness she can into her voice.

“Yeza, you are not safe here. Look at me. Do you see what they’ve done?” He swallows, looking her up and down. The lacerations on her skin still sting even days after Ikithon’s interrogation, so she knows the visage is exactly as awful as she needs it to be. “They would do the same to Veth if they caught her. These are not good people.”

Something in his expression cracks. “I… I know. I know. The stuff I’ve seen in the last few days, it’s scary. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just tell them _no._ I’m just- I’m not a brave person, ok?”

“I’m not either. I am a coward, just like you.” She lets out a slow breath. “But you know who _is_ brave? Your wife.”

He nods, folding his arms around himself. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “She’s the bravest person I’ve ever known. She rescued us, you know? Made sure we made it home after the goblins took our family.” His arms tighten into the imitation of an embrace. “I’d like to go home again,” he whispers.

“Then.. let’s both try to be as brave as her.” Maybe, between the two of them combined, they can manage it.

\---

They spend the next few hours comparing notes on what they know, which isn’t much. Yeza assures her that the schedule is very regular, and that the guards never visit more than twice a day to bring food (and lately, Yasha). She’s grateful that the blindfold can stay off a while longer. She’s already grown addicted to the light.

Yasha asks about the door and Yeza tells her that it only appears when the guards do. They wait while he eats and after they leave, the door disappears again. Yasha’s not sure what to make of that. It doesn’t sound like any magic Caleb can cast, but she supposes it makes for an effective prison. No need to constantly guard someone when there’s nowhere they can go.

She asks too if he can look at the bands around her wrists and see if they’re truly as impenetrable as they appear. There’s nothing she can offer while she’s still tied down. He fiddles with the mechanisms for a while, turning the lock over and back with his lip between his teeth.

“I can’t open it, but it doesn’t look magical.” He furrows his brow for a moment, then his expression lights up and he slaps his hands together. “Wait. Wait wait _wait_. I have an idea.”

Yeza darts back over to his workstation, pawing through an assortment of bottles and pouches. “Yes!” he cries, pulling out a small satchel from beneath a dirty rag. “I asked for iodine, saltpeter, lime - you know, the usual base supplies - and I think- aha!” He pulls out a little packet of some substance Yasha doesn’t recognize. “I can’t make exactly what I’d like, but I think I can make something similar. There’s an acid, highly corrosive even on the lesser metals, but the molecular structure of iron made it particularly effective-” He pauses, stroking his chin. “It’ll have to be in small batches. The recipe is pretty finicky, and I don’t want to burn any more holes into the table. But if I can make enough of it, we might be able to cut straight through the locks!”

Yasha instinctively cringes at the prospect of pouring acid so near her skin, but it seems a small price to pay to be rid of the bindings. It seems almost too good to be true. It probably is. Even if Yeza’s solution works, what next? They might be able to make another break for it, but to where? Past the hidden door is a total unknown, they blindfolded Yeza just the same as her when they brought him in.

Eventually, she concludes that it’s a problem for another day. Provided Yeza can convince DeRogna of Yasha’s continual usefulness, so they actually _have_ days.

They talk about his work, what Lady DeRogna asked him to create. “It’s a strange thing,” he says, pulling a heavy box of unadorned lead from beneath the desk and setting it on the ground near the chair. “Still don’t even really know what it does.” He lifts the top of the box and reaches inside, and Yasha nearly gasps. The object he pulls out is a perfect replica of the dodecahedron they collected in Zadash.

“Do you know what it is?”

“No,” Yasha says, still staring intently at the slowly shifting colours. “Not really. But I’ve seen something like it.”

“They told me not to look too closely,” Yeza explains sheepishly. “But I got curious. I looked one day and I got sucked in- I can’t really explain it-”

“It felt like the whole universe was right in front of you,” Yasha finishes.

“Yeah! That’s exactly it. I can’t imagine the type of energy that would go into creating an object like this. That’s what Lady DeRogna wanted me to try and distill – that energy. If I put the beacon here,” he says, pulling out a tripod from the same box, “I can concentrate the ambient radiation, see? The refraction amplifies it, and with the right chemical components as a focus, I can retain a little of the potential energy. The main problem is, in an injectable form it seems to be incompatible with most humanoid physiology. I tried a little of the first batch myself, and it felt like it was burning the blood right out of me.

“That’s why… I asked for Xhorhasian blood.” He flinches again. “Thought it might make for a good binding agent, if Kryn bodies are adapted to this kind of energy. Haven’t gotten to test that hypothesis yet. I’m still working on the first sample with the new… recipe.” Yasha stares past him to the apparatus on the table, piping murky brown liquid through the hollow tubes. Her blood, feeding the machine of the Empire.

“I swear, I thought they would just get me, I don’t know, a blood sample or something,” he pleads. “I didn’t mean to ask for a whole person. They didn’t- they didn’t kidnap you, just for me, did they?”

“No,” she reminds him gently. “I don’t think they were after any of us specifically. We were in the wrong place. And we were not as cautious as we should have been.”

Yeza slumps down by the side of the chair. “I still can’t believe she’s alive,” he murmurs. “I almost don’t. But if she is alive, and she got hurt trying to help me – I’m never going to forgive myself.”

Yasha is not made for comforting. She never has the right words for it. It would be kinder to say that Nott is fine, but Yasha doesn’t know what became of her after they all went down, and she doesn’t want to lie, not about this. Nor can she bring herself to tell Yeza he’s blameless. True, he’s here unwillingly now, but it didn’t begin that way. The Empire knocked on his door and he said yes. He made choices, just like the rest of them.

If Nott is hurt, or captured, or dead, what then? If they make it out and Yeza is alive, but Veth is gone, will he be able to bear it?

How do you grieve when the loss came by your own hand?

“I don’t think she would want you to hate yourself. No matter what happens.” The words feel hollow even before she speaks them.

“Yeah,” says Yeza. “I guess you’re right.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Yasha doesn’t feel much better.

Yeza sighs and leans his head against the chair, curls just brushing the edge of Veth’s name. “How are we going to get out of here?” he asks again. It’s quickly becoming a mantra between the two of them. Her response is the same as it’s always been.

“I don’t know, Yeza.”

She’s growing so incredibly tired of that phrase.

\---

At the tail end of the day Yeza brews another batch of the sleeping toxin, promising to make it weak enough that she’ll only be out for an hour or so, and replaces the blindfold and gag.

When the woman and the guards come to take Yeza’s potions and collect her, Yasha does not resist, and when she wakes in the cell she spends the night thinking about impossible things like rescue, and freedom. When they return in what she can only assume is the morning, she feigns limp-bodied sleep as they drag her through the halls. She counts the steps, past the corridor to her right with its brush of heat, through turns, and steps, and more steps, and doors, before she’s finally placed back into the chair. The darkness is easier to bear, knowing there’s an end to it.

When Yeza approaches the first time with the needle, it’s with raised hands. “I’m sorry, but I need to keep showing progress. I don’t know what they’ll do to me if I don’t.”

She doesn’t want to agree, but she does. It’s what has to be done, and she watches in morbid fascination as the strange silver contraption enters her arm. She doesn’t think there’s anything in her blood that’s special. She hopes there isn’t. Then again, she has always been different. Not quite human, never quite _right_. Wouldn’t it be strange, to finally have proof?

With three separate concoctions to brew, Yeza’s progress is slow. One day turns into two, turns into three, with a sweaty-faced Yeza hunched over his steaming beakers and Yasha staring, as always, at a blank wall. At first they try to plan for their eventual escape, but the conversation always ends at the same misty veil of uncertainty: Yeza melts through the cuffs, Yasha overpowers the guards, they slip through the door in the short time it exists, and-

And nothing. The world outside the room is a formless void, full of hazards they can’t begin to guess. Yasha is almost certain they’re in the Soltryce Academy – Yeza spoke of entering a big, fancy building past tall gates – and that’s close enough to her own recollection to confirm it, but that’s the end of what they know. They speak briefly of trying to coax more information out of Lady DeRogna on her next visit, but secretly, Yasha doubts Yeza’s ability to lie to her. Like Yasha, he’s too straightforward for the type of delicate subterfuge that Fjord does so easily.

So they wait, and they worry, and in the quiet moments, they talk about home.

Yeza tells her of Felderwin, how he became an alchemist, the little house that he and Luc – and at one point, Veth – shared. When Yasha asks, he tells her of how they met – the pretty but shy girl who another boy dared him to kiss, and the first dance of autumn, and how beautiful she’d looked with ribbons in her dark hair. Every word he speaks is soaked in love and wonder and long-held grief and short-held hope, almost too much for one body to hold, and Yasha’s heart pangs in sympathy. She knows what it is to be frightened of how much you care for someone else.

He asks her about her home, and she means to divert the question. She means to, but she says, “I don’t have one.”

“What happened to it?”

“She died.” Another thing she didn’t mean to say.

“Oh.” And then, “I’m sorry.” He says it like he knows how she feels, like he carries the same echo of sorrow in his own heart. Because, she remembers all at once, he does.

When he asks how they met, she answers, and she’s surprised to find that her own voice holds a little of Yeza’s joy in the remembrance.

This is not the first time she’s spoken of what she lost.

This is the first time she’s spoken of what came before.

It hurts worse than she could have imagined, and it’s the lightest she’s felt in years.

At last, the day comes that the conversations cease. The acid is ready, plus a little more set aside as makeshift weaponry. Yeza modifies the sleeping toxin a final time, and soaks rags in bottles that he stuffs beneath the mattress along with all the other illicit substances he’s created.

They have the means of escape, enough for one attempt. Now comes the choice. Do they try their luck, or wait for rescue?

Yeza is terrified, but determined. Yasha is past the point of fear. To die as the Empire’s pet experiment, locked in a cell and trotted out for examination before being shoved back into a dark cupboard is not something she can accept. In the end, the decision is easy.

Today. They’ll try today, and if they fail then it will be over, one way or the other.

They’re ready, with the blindfold and gag looped loosely around Yasha’s neck and a soaked rag in her fist and Yeza’s hand poised with a vial of acid over the first of the armbands. The glass begins to tip, and that’s when Yasha hears it: the frantic lilt of an achingly familiar voice.

“Wait!” she cries, and Yeza jerks to a stop. A little droplet of acid slips out onto the metal and starts to sizzle its way towards the wood below.

They hang in suspended animation, and Yasha waits until she’s absolutely certain there’s no more to the message before she lets herself speak through the lump in her throat.

“ _Jester?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's going to be a bit of a behemoth, I think, with a planned _four_ POVs and at least one plotline ready to come to a head. Nervous, but excited, for "Graduation" :).


	13. Graduation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jester's fateful graduation day arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up reasonably happy with this chapter, but I went through the five stages of grief editing it. This chapter is _long_. Unconscionably long, and if there were any way to split it up I would have. But alas, there wasn't, and here we are: enjoy ~11K words of what I've spent the last week agonizing over. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: canon-typical body horror

_Should I tell them?_

Jester contemplates the question as Fjord and Caduceus bed down for the night.

It should be an easy answer. It shouldn’t need any thought at all.

Caduceus’s bed has become two now, her old one and his pushed together so he can lie across at a diagonal and almost fit all his limbs. This new development means Jester’s now sleeping in the bed that first held Beau and Caleb, and she wanted so badly to protest when Fjord made the suggestion, because Beau is gone but what if Caleb came back? What if he needed it when he did? But it’s been days – summed up, more than a week since his first and only visit – and it really is much more comfortable for Caduceus, the way things are now.

It still feels like giving up.

She sits on her bed with her sketchbook hanging between her knees, watching Fjord turn down his sheets and crawl beneath. They face each other now, with their new sleeping arrangement. The first night in this bed she’d tried so hard to stay awake longer than him, to catch what he looked like in the moments between waking and sleeping, but she’s never quite managed it. She’s always out the moment she hits the pillow, and he stays awake so much longer than the others in the group. That hasn’t changed.

That’s really what she’s watching for: changes. Any hint that Caleb’s vacant stare has taken root behind Fjord’s eyes during their days apart.

Jester eventually follows his lead, pulling up her blankets over her head until the trapped air becomes too muggy to bear. For once, sleep refuses to take her.

_Should I tell them?_

They might try to stop her from going.

Jester still hasn’t told the two about her second disastrous escape attempt, though she paraphrased Andras’s warning in the hope it would stop Fjord from making the same mistake with his Misty Step down the line. She didn’t tell them, because they had warned her not to try and she did anyway and nearly died in the process, but that doesn’t mean it was the _wrong_ choice.

She had to do something.

Master Kirn’s offer flits through her mind, and with it the hope she can’t bring herself to temper: _if you wish to go, I will help you._

Everybody keeps telling her that it’s dangerous to trust. Caleb, Nott, Fjord, they never want to trust _anyone_ new. But isn’t that why they’re all together in the first place? Jester chose to trust a strange sailor man back in Nicodranas, and they’ve been to the ends of the earth and back. The two of them chose to trust a bruised-up grifter in a run-down inn, who swore she was an asshole up and down but always had their backs when it mattered. They chose to trust Molly and Yasha, even though either one of them could have been the reason for the zombie attack in Trostenwald. They chose to trust Caleb and Nott, despite Fjord’s raging objection to Caleb taking that scroll, the night the tower broke. They chose to trust Caduceus, who lived in a graveyard and offered his service for nothing in return over cups of dead people tea.

Trust is what’s gotten them this far. She refuses to give it up now.

“Fjord,” Jester whispers. “Are you awake?”

“Hmm?” he mumbles back, amber eyes flicking to hers from across the narrow space, his covers pulled up to his chin.

“You trust me, right?”

Fjord shakes off whatever vestiges of tiredness still clung to him as he pushes himself up onto one elbow.

“Yeah, of course I do, Jester.”

“Caduceus, do you trust me?” she calls across the room.

A low rumble tells her that Caduceus was closer to sleep than Fjord, but he eventually mutters,

“Usually,” and even if she can’t see his face, she can tell he’s wearing a fond, if tired, smile. Jester sits up, blankets pooled in her lap, debating her next words. “Is this a conversation we need light for?” She shrugs - they can all see in the dark, more or less - but obligingly waves her hand, and the sconce above Caduceus’s head flickers to something like hazy torchlight. Her thaumaturgy is enough to light it, not unlike the little lanterns sold in the marketplace near the wharf back home: practice objects for magically-inclined children. Even the bedrooms here are a means to an end.

“So,” she starts. “I finally met the person who runs the temple, this really old dragonborn. He’s named Master Kirn and he’s, like, really cool, got all this super old stuff collected in his office, and anyway, we talked, and- he wants to help me get out.”

Fjord blinks a few times before responding. “ _Out_ , as in, out of the Academy? How?”

He’s wary, but he hasn’t said no yet. That’s encouraging. “He said that there’s a ceremony, for graduating students. We could use that as cover to sneak me out, and then he can pretend like I’ve gone off to Bladegarden to be a healer. The Headmistress won’t suspect a thing.”

Fjord furrows his brow, pushing his blankets the rest of the way off as he sits and faces Jester. “Why would a Master want to help you leave? He works for the Academy too.”

“Yeah, but he feels bad that I’m trapped here when I don’t want to be.” She pauses before adding, “He misses his home too. He didn’t seem evil, Fjord. He just seemed sad.”

Fjord shakes his head. “I don’t know, Jester, that sounds-”

She cuts him off. “They longer we stay, we’re just getting more stuck here. Me getting out is the only way we’re all going to be able to talk to each other.” It’s the same argument, over and over. She’s sick of it.

(But at least it means Fjord’s _talking_.)

“You don’t know that for sure!” he shoot back. “Even if you do manage to leave the Academy, how do you know you’ll be able to send messages back inside it? Or what if, what if whatever’s stopping you from sending messages isn’t the school, it’s something Tross did to you? A spell or something?”

“What would she have done _to_ me?” she says as Caduceus chimes from across the room, “I highly doubt that.” He shifts uncomfortably, but otherwise drops the point, and she knows he’s grasping at straws, grasping at _anything_ to keep her from venturing into the dangerous unknown. He takes so many risks, but only with himself. “Fjord. You said you trusted me. So _trust me_.”

“I don’t like the idea any better than Fjord,” Caduceus says. “I don’t think we know enough about anyone here to judge who’s on our side, or even on their own side, really. But,” he glances at Fjord, “I do think Jester’s right. Our options aren’t improving, and there’s only so much we can do on our own. Being able to get a message to Caleb or Yasha, find out what they know? That would be a godsend at this point.”

Jester’s heart blooms with his support. “Yes, exactly!”

Fjord still doesn’t look convinced. “I don’t like this, Jester. It seems… awfully convenient.”

“If it would make you feel better,” Caduceus offers, “maybe both of us could attend the ceremony? Just to keep an eye on things.”

“I’m not sure,” Jester admits. “From what Andras said, sounds like it’s a pretty private thing. But I’ll check.” She softens as she looks back to Fjord, who’s doing his best impression of a man not worried out of his mind. Which is to say, not a very good one. He forgets that she’s the only one who can see right through him. “I’d like you to be there. How cool is it, that you can watch me graduate?”

“Ok,” Fjord agrees quietly. “I trust you. And I’ll be there. If you want to do this, then I’m behind you. Just… be careful, alright?”

“I always am. Always.”

\----

Jester walks the path to the temple with small steps, taking in the sights one last time: the patch of wildflowers, the trees, the white curves of the temple walls. She really wants to remember at least one thing happily. It would be nice, you know? Just one good thing.

Andras and Julia and Eli are already in the sanctuary when she arrives, and as she looks at Andras a pang of anxious regret ripples through her: a stove left unattended and remembered only after the food’s burned. _I promised you, didn’t I? I promised we’d leave together, and now I’m going alone._

She can’t worry about that now. There’s only so many promises she can keep.

Jester heads straight to Kirn’s office and knocks. The door swings open without her touch, revealing the same topsy-turvy collection of Draconian relics as her last visit. The singing bowl with its many scars is still balanced on a pile of books, unmoved, and the little wooden mallet sits beside it. She hopes that Kirn managed to wring a little more comfort out of its shape after she left, even if the song wasn’t perfect.

Master Kirn himself is seated behind the desk, his golden scales shimmering as the light from the hallway spills in around Jester. She smiles, and he returns the expression. If his face had wrinkles, she imagines they’d be crinkling.

“Hello, Jester.”

“Hi!” She closes the door and steps lightly around the stacks of books hedging the path to the desk. The second chair has migrated beneath a particularly precarious shelf, filled with what looks like a collection of strange glass eyepieces. She grabs the chair, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of odds and ends, and drags it over to face the desk, straddling the seat backwards and resting her chin on her arms as she leans in. “So. Let’s figure stuff out, right?”

He gives her his full attention, all other work brushed to the side as he mirrors her intent posture. “I take it you haven’t changed your mind, then.”

She shakes her head. “I’m ready. I want to go.”

“Good,” he says, and pulls over a book that might just be the oldest thing in the whole collection, judging by the dangerously frayed binding of linen and twine. “Most of the preparations are already in place. All that’s left is to inform the Headmistress of your departure date, so that your absence is not held under suspicion. As for your part, it’s important that we maintain the illusion that things are as they seem, especially to the other students. They have worked hard to be here, and do not deserve to bear responsibility if we are discovered. Here.” He passes her the book, and when she runs a finger down the spine, a little of the binding crumbles away beneath her touch. The title is in a language she doesn’t recognize, but when she flips to the first page she finds translations inked in Common beneath the lines of incomprehensible text.

“These are the traditional chants of dedication, meant to pledge a soul to Bahamut’s service.” She frowns in confusion, and he elaborates. “‘Graduation’ is the term we tend to use, in keeping with the rest of the Academy, but in truth the ceremony is a show of commitment, expected of a follower of Bahamut before they leave the temple to become a fully-fledged initiative. I recognize that you are too young in your journey to truly make such a promise, and if asking you to participate goes against your conscience, I am sorry. But to _not_ participate would strain belief. The rest of the students have already been studying these chants for most of their time here, and they would ask questions I could not answer. Instead, I will say this: make your words as honest and as earnest as you can, and Bahamut will guide you true tonight.”

If Master Kirn still thinks she’s a loyal follower of Bahamut, he clearly hasn’t been asking Andras about her atrocious performance, but she’s not about to correct him. Nor is she particularly concerned about making a false pledge - it’s not like the Traveler will mind. She’s never given him any reason to doubt her true faith. “Yeah, absolutely. You can count on me. I’ll make Bahamut proud, definitely.” She only catches up to the end of Master Kirn’s words as she’s halfway through her own. “Wait, _tonight_?”

“Tonight. If you are ready, there is no reason to delay.”

“No, for sure, it’s just… wow. Tonight.” Jester is dizzy with the realization that it could all be over for her in less than twelve hours.

Another realization: Fjord and Caduceus don’t know.

“Would it be ok if I just, really quick, ran back and told my friends? I kind of promised them they could come watch the graduation, unless…” She hadn’t even thought to ask, had she? “You couldn’t get them out too, could you?”

He sighs, sinking back into his chair. “I’m afraid not, Jester. The only reason I could convince the Headmistress to let _you_ go was to promise your contribution to the clerical effort in Bladegarden, but I could not argue the same for your friends. I can’t help them. I’m sorry.”

“...Ok.” She wasn’t too hopeful, but she had to ask. He ignores the first half of Jester’s question, which isn’t a _refusal_ , and that’s good enough for her. “So, after I talk to my friends, when do we start?”

“As soon as possible. Hurry back to the Temple and we’ll begin as soon as you arrive. The chant is not complicated, but it is long, and meant to be followed by a period of solitary contemplation. To delay would be to push the ceremony late into the evening, and I would prefer to be done with all of this before tomorrow’s dawn.”

Nodding, she places the book back onto the desk and stands. “I’ll be back soon, so soon you won’t even miss me,” she says.

He smiles. “I don’t doubt it.”

Grinning back, she scurries out the door and takes off at a pelt back towards the main building, skirt billowing behind her, the taste of hope more real with each passing second.

It would be a long way to run, but the horizon doesn’t seem that far off.

***

It’s hard not to feel like a dog on occasion, curled up at his master’s feet. Caleb’s place on the other side of Ikithon’s desk is now customary. _Normal_. They work in silence that might almost be companionable, if circumstances were not as they are.

In the continuation of Caleb’s studies, they’ve moved on to another spell. This one is more complex, involving elements of space as well as time, and Caleb is not fully convinced he’ll have the ability to cast it even if he manages to finish copying it to his little black notebook. Even the simpler dunamantic spell takes a chunk of his fortitude every time he casts it, and that is child’s play in comparison to the complexity of his new task. 

Caleb’s got his pen resting on his lip, locked in serious contemplation over the jumbled mess of symbols, when the door as his back creaks open. He startles. Up until this point, beside him and Ikithon the only people he’s seen enter the room are servants, and it’s far from any mealtime. 

The woman in the doorway isn’t hard to place - he recognizes her from the night they were taken in: lightning in her fists, Ikithon at her back. Mirel, his memory supplies as he makes the connection. Ikithon’s mentioned that name before. She doesn’t so much as glance his way as she strides towards the desk.

“Tross has some news she wants you to hear.”

Ikithon waves his hand, not looking up from his own work. “Tell me, then.” She shifts at Caleb’s side, and from this low vantage he can’t miss how tightly her hands are clenched.

“She didn’t tell me,” then, “I’m not an errand girl, you know.” 

Ikithon only sighs before fixing her with a displeased frown. “You should have brought the message direct to me.” Her hands twitch. He dips his head towards Caleb, expression softening just slightly. “Continue your work. I’ll return shortly.”

Ikithon breezes past Mirel on his way out, ignoring her clenched jaw and the way it works around unsaid words, and Caleb shivers in the wake of his passing. The door closes behind him and at his side, Mirel stands stock-still, staring straight ahead. 

“Hello,” he mumbles when the silence grows too uncomfortable. She finally drops her eyes down towards him, and his face begins to heat. They’re right next to each other. Should he stand? Shake her hand? Ask her to leave?

She doesn’t give him the chance to do anything, because she leans down over his shoulder and places her fingertips on the pages of the new spell, drawing the sheets apart until she can discern the shape of what he’s studying. “So you’re Bren,” she murmurs, just inches from his ear. He doesn’t correct her. Her jaw is working again; he can hear the click in the joint as she grinds her teeth.

Mirel picks up the black notebook and flips through the first few pages. Caleb’s chest squeezes in panic at her pace, but she stops short of the end of the book when she reaches the rough outline of the new spell. “You’re the dunamancy prodigy.” She bites out the title as she snaps the book closed and tosses it back onto the desk. He just barely manages to lunge forward and rescue the open bottle of ink it hits before the black liquid tips onto the edge of Ikithon’s papers.

“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” he says politely once he’s taken the notebook and placed it in his lap, safely out of reach. “You’re Mirel, correct?”

“ _Master_ Mirel.” She turns and leans her hip against the desk, staring Caleb down. The elven woman is younger than him, he realizes. Not quite as young as Beau, but young. Her careful makeup lends her an elegance that defies choosing an exact age. He hadn’t paid her much mind at their first meeting, too focused on the shock of Ikithon’s appearance, but as he follows the black swirls of kohl from her temples to the corners of her narrowed eyes, he can’t help but wonder what sort of child Ikithon sought to replace him with, and what kind of person she grew into. Her outward presentation is perfect in a way he’ll never again be able to replicate, not with his scars and drawn face, but her eyes are dark with bitterness. That, in itself, is a telling sign.

“You know, he told me stories about you. The great Bren Aldric Ermendrud, the pride of the nation. The boy who didn’t have the balls to do what needed to be done and drove himself mad instead. You were a cautionary tale.” Her words drip with venom. “You were dead to your country.” She turns her gaze back to the scattered pages, and her eyes flash with something like envy. It’s the same look his classmates gave him, the first time he’d bragged about his new spot under Ikithon’s wing. “You could have stayed that way.”  He hears the implication loud and clear. They were raised on the same political double-speak. _You could be dead again_. “Why didn’t you?”

He folds his hands over the notebook, an unplaceable emotion stirring in his chest. “There are things I’d yet like to learn, and dead people cannot read books.”

She snorts, loud and abrasive and unbecoming, and while her appearance is refined her affectations are flawed. Caleb wonders how long Ikithon could have really spent with this new student, and still ended up with something unfinished. A rush of irrational anger floods between his ribs with a ghostly, sick warmth. He was imperfect for different reasons, but he was at least diligent. He gave up everything he had, everything he _was_ , and she’s squandering her opportunity without even realizing it.

Hasn’t she learned yet, that if this is the person she chooses to be, she cannot show a bit of herself? 

(Why is it, that after all this, only _he_ has to hide?)

Caleb stands and moves to the back of the desk, placing his hands on the back of Ikithon’s chair. “Did you need something else,” he asks, voice cold as death, “or was that all you had to say?” His voice takes on a confident lilt. Commanding.

He may have thrown his life away, but at least he was _committed_. It doesn’t bear thinking about what atrocities she’s performed under Ikithon’s orders, without being truly willing to make that choice. 

He has inches on her, but she certainly doesn’t cow under his steady gaze. If anything, her shoulders square up, stiffening her to the full extent of prideful bravado. “No, that will be all, _Caleb_.” She spits the name with a sneer, like it’s dung beneath her feet. _Caleb._ Common. Unknown. No legacy attached.

He calls out the correction, just before the door latches behind her, and her foot pauses in the doorframe so he knows he’s been heard.

“Bren.”

***

Jester catches Fjord just as he’s about to turn the handle to the classroom, the one he’s begrudgingly begun to think of as his own. Her cheeks are flushed and breathless as she pants out, “Fjord. It’s tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“I’m leaving tonight,” she says, and he clamps a hand over her mouth and drags her away from the door, lest Mirel be close by and listening. 

“For real?” he whispers.

“Yeah, for real. Master Kirn said it had to be tonight, everything’s ready to go.” He looks back at the door. _Shit._ He’d been hoping for a little more advance warning, a little more _time_. To do what, he hasn’t figured out yet. Something. “You’ll still be there, right, Fjord?”

“I can’t ditch my class, Mirel will have my head. But I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Ok,” she whispers back, breathing finally calmed to a reasonable pace. “Then I won’t say goodbye.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” He reaches out to tussle her hair, then thinks better of it. Any second now, Mirel could come barging out of the classroom, demanding his presence, and this affection is hard enough to show without having it mocked or belittled. He doesn’t need to hear her opinion of how soft he is. Not today, of all days, when everything already feels far too raw.

_Jester will leave tonight, and then it will only be you and Caduceus._

_(Soon there will be no one left at your side, and you’ll be alone again.)_

_(But what have you done for her, that would make her trust you enough to save her? That would make her stay?)_

Without the same inhibition, she reaches up on her tiptoes and lands a peck on his cheek. The spot where her lips touched burns long after she’s settled back onto her heels. “See you tonight.” And then she’s darting back around the corner, and then she’s gone.

\---

Fjord had thought he’d known what Mirel’s sour temper was like. Turns out he was wrong. There are _levels_ to her anger he’d never been unfortunate enough to meet, until today.

He can tell he’s in for something worse than the normal abuse when Mirel marches in an hour late for their session. Fjord nearly makes a jab about it, flinging all the reprimands he’s received for tardiness back in her face, but restrains himself as he notes the steam radiating off her limbs. “Bad morning?” he says instead.

That was, evidently, an even more unfortunate thing to say, because the spark that tears through his body leaves him gasping and clutching onto a desk for dear life as he waits for his vision to clear. “Sorry for asking,” he grits out, and he’s not afraid of her, (he’s _not_ ), but he puts some distance between them once he finds his legs enough to stand again. 

The day’s lesson is acerbic, violent. Every mistake he makes, every slight hesitation is met with punishment, and by the end every muscle he moves is perfectly placed, trained to reduce the threat of her next attack. His form is refined now, his hand movements precise and enunciation crisp, and while his erratic bursts of magic could before barely sustain more than two real expenditures a day, he finds he can manage quite a number of spells each session before he tires completely. Knowing the proper technique does make a difference, it seems, as does the book learning she’s set to him over recent nights. He’s no wizard, but he _is_ making progress. It would be great if his teacher acknowledged that, just once.

( _He dreamed last night, of a sea dotted with many-coloured fish. His body, sunk below the surface, watching the patterns dart by and following a school of herring down into the depths. As the water grew colder, the fish slowed their dance, drifting lazily towards the surface as he plunged deeper. The ocean floor came upon him all at once, and thick coils of algae reached up towards his willing hands like a lover’s embrace._

**_Learn_ ** _._

_When the yellow light flashed below the surface of the coils, he knew exactly what to do._

**_Reward._ **

_He stretched out his fist and squeezed, and the water grew murky with black ink, and all around were the carcasses of dead fish, their bodies sightless and spoiled._

**_Good._ **

_How comforting it is, to know what you are made for.)_

It’s hours before they finish. Their lesson ends in possibility the most potent casting he’s ever managed, the result of one last good hit from the latest acquisition to his arsenal. With her guidance he’s been able to concentrate his hex curse down into the blood of the target instead of it resting on the surface, mingling with the opponent’s life essence and poisoning from the inside out. Today, he was allowed to use her as a test target, but _only_ if he could avoid her blows well enough to land the casting. While his final successful firing _was_ excruciatingly painful, if the way she fell to the floor and _writhed_ was any true indication, it was brief, and it’s him who ended the day far more bruised. 

Nominally, this was meant to be an exercise in concentration. Truthfully, he gets the impression she just wanted something to hurt.

A little trickle of red runs from the corner of Mirel’s lip to her chin as she collapses into a vacant seat. She wipes it away with a grimace, her jaw still twitching with residual pain. 

“Hah,” she chuckles, the remnant of a grin on her bloody lips. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” 

“I’ve still got a bit more,” he wheezes out, clutching his sword arm to his chest. He’s not sure if it’s a lie. 

She chuckles again, but her expression changes as she sits up straighter, like there’s something she’s realized. “I guess you do,” she says, pressing her thumb to where the skin splits between her teeth. A little more blood spills down around the nail. “I asked you once. How strong you are?”

“Stronger every day.”

“And your loyalty to the Empire? How strong is that?”

It feels like she’s building to a greater question, so Fjord doesn’t hesitate in his response. Tell her what she needs to hear. “Absolute.” 

She pulls out a compact from her robes. At first, he thinks it’s the same one that holds the powder she uses to cast her arcane locks, but as she flips it open Fjord spies a mirror within the case, its silver surface small and smudged. Mirel peers into it for a long moment, but rather than wiping away the last of the blood from her lip, her fingers brush the edge of her temple, where hair meets the edge of her makeup. He’s not sure what she’s checking for; the lines of kohl are still neat and unbroken.

“I think you’re ready for your first real lesson,” she says, and snaps the compact closed. 

“What kind of lesson?” Fjord shuffles over to Mirel, and she turns to face him, eyes lit not with anger but a wild sort of determination. He desperately wants to be comforted by the change. He’d still prefer the brand of violence he’s used to. 

“A practical one. Don’t give me that look, it’s standard. Just maybe not for the typical student.”

He frowns. “Who’s it for, then?”

“People like you and me. The chosen few.” She bares her red-tinged gums. “I think you’re ready for it. And if it accomplishes two purposes at once, even better. You are ready, aren’t you? Not still a weakling beneath all that pretty armour?”

“Of course,” he says, squaring his shoulders. The ache in his arm is starting to fade. He’d been hoping for a longer rest, but if he has to, if he…

The time. Oh fuck, _Jester_.

“When, um, exactly, is this lesson happening?” he asks uneasily.

Mirel stands and walks towards the door. “What happened to being ready? Don’t tell me you’re already getting cold feet.”

“No,” he insists. “It’s just…”

“Got somewhere else to be?” She narrows her eyes. “Didn’t think you had any extracurriculars, Fjord.”

“No, not at all,” he says hastily. “No, I- sure. Now is great. Now is perfect.”

“Glad you’ve got your priorities in order. Let’s go.” She gestures him towards the door, and he follows, reluctantly stepping in front of her as she holds it open. The feeling of her at his back, just out of sight, is disconcerting at the best of times, but far worse when he’s barely got enough energy to walk, let alone dodge any ‘motivation’ she decides to administer. Still, he pulls himself up and walks as straight as he can.

They step out into the hallway, and free from the covered windows of the classroom he can see that the light from the courtyard is starting to fade. 

If he goes with Mirel, he’s not going to make it. There just isn’t enough time.

“Move your feet,” comes the order at his back.

This is what he’s been working for. The inner sanctum, the next step, and he’s making progress, he’s getting there, he _almost has it_. Mirel’s trust, or respect, or at least her ear, he can get there. He just has to keep pushing forward. It’s the only thing he can afford to focus on.

It’s all he has to contribute.

“Moving,” he agrees, and watches the light fade completely as she guides their path through the halls.

***

Jester does not so much find Caduceus as stumble over him as he crouches in the dirt, hands half a foot deep in soil. He’s been working steadily outwards this morning, testing for signs of life before the rest of the student body wakes. His surveying has brought him near to the temple of Bahamut, and the tips of white wings peek through the shifting leaves of the scattered trees and bushes. As lovely as the greenery is, most of it is still dead. Though, as he’s discovered, not _quite_ all. The further he moves from the main building, the more whispers he hears - at first faint and few, but many more now that he’s nearing the walls: the sound of old things mourning their brethren, and new things yawning as they wake. As he approaches the temple, the whispers grow stronger still. Young whispers. Strong. There may yet be things still living in the holy aura beneath its eaves. He’ll need to investigate further when he returns to the library.

“Nice to see you again so soon,” he says as he helps Jester off the ground. “What’s the hurry?”

She catches her breath before speaking. “...the graduation, holy shit... it’s happening tonight.”

“That’s not what you expected?”

“No,” she admits. “But that’s what’s happening.”

“Do you need us there now?” He’s finally making some headway and he’d hate to quit so early, but Jester’s predicament is a little more pressing.

“I don’t think so,” she says carefully. “I’m supposed to spend today reading from some old book, then the main thing is happening tonight. If you come by later, I think it will be fine.”

“Sure. Then I’ll keep working.” Jester looks poised to take off sprinting again but he holds up a hand for her to wait. “Do you know any reason why the temple of Bahamut would keep the plants alive? Only the young ones, too. I’ve spoken to a number of carnations near the entrance and they’re just as confused as me.”

Jester shrugs. “I’m not really a cleric of Bahamut, remember? I don’t know really. Maybe someone’s praying for them?”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose I could ask your Master Kirn about it tonight, if I haven’t found out something by then.” 

He releases Jester so she can head to the main Academy building, no doubt to deliver the same news to Fjord, and Caduceus follows not long after. He’s learned about all he can from surveying the grounds, and now there’s nothing left to do but lock himself in the library with Elgon and read. He grimaces at the thought. What he wouldn’t give for Beau’s historical expertise or Caleb’s ability to skim through text to speed the process.

The library is as sullen as ever in its dungeon beneath the earth, and nobody looks particularly happy to be there. The more tenacious students have grown accustomed to his presence by this point, and a few even come up to him, asking for help with finding tomes. Apparently, word has spread through the student body that he’s Elgon’s eccentric new assistant. That suits him fine, and though he’s not sure he’s much help to anyone who needs directions, he does his best to answer the few queries he does know.

Elgon greets him as he passes by one of the tables in the recesses of the gated area. The halfling appears to have been dozing, judging by the mounting pile of books in his cart. 

“Where are the volumes on state religion?” he asks, and Elgon stretches before leading him to a few dusty shelves near the back, chattering all the while as they walk. Even sleep cannot dull the speed of Elgon’s tongue when it comes to things he knows.

“Not many people ask for that, you know. Religion’s not a big thing here at the Academy - people feel it’s beneath them, I think. Like to believe all their power came from themselves, instead of remembering how much of that fancy magic was gifted by the gods before the Calamity. History! It’s important to remember where you came from. Otherwise you might start to believe _you’re_ the god.” 

Caduceus nods along, listening for nuggets of useful information amongst the rambling.

“That’s why I liked the old Headmaster. Really down to earth fellow, you know? Liked his books. Liked his religion just as much. Spent a lot of time down here, reading everything he could about Ioun. Even asked me to order a few specific tomes for him about the history of her worship. I can always respect a man with a passion for the Knowing Mistress. Patron of libraries, you know.”

“Did he ever mention anything about Bahamut?” Caduceus redirects. Elgon thinks for a moment while he pulls over one of the ladders to the shelf they’re stopped in front of. Caduceus doesn’t know much about book bindings, but he can tell these are somewhat finer than the rest. Made with richer materials, maybe.

“I don’t think so? He was always far more interested in Ioun, though I suppose he must not have held any animosity towards him. Approved the temple after all that business with the dragons, you know. Always figured it was a placating measure for the dragonborn refugees, to keep them from making trouble, and not any particular partiality on Headmaster Valorna’s part. But still, it’s the action that makes the man.”

Elgon scales the ladder up to the tallest shelf and hands a couple of books to Caduceus. “I take it Bahamut is who you’re interested in?” Caduceus examines the cover of the first book, emblazoned with a silver-threaded illustration of a dragon. 

“Mostly in what he or his followers have to say about corruption of the earth. Where it comes from, how to combat it.” If he can solve what ails the plants here, he may have a clue to what evil currently befalls the Savalier Wood, as well as what lies beneath the Academy’s floors, and that is all the more reason to investigate.

“I imagine it’s nothing good, but I’m no expert.” Elgon glances over the rows of shelves from his perch on the ladder, then leans down and murmurs, “But you may have better luck with the Wildmother. I’d heard the _waldkind_ worshipped her, or they once did.”

“Oh, some do,” Caduceus says non-committedly. “But are there even books on her works in the library, if her worship isn’t legal?”

“Some collections in this library predate the formation of the Dwendalian empire, and they can’t possibly check _all_ the books in here for heresy. Some might have… slipped through.” Elgon waggles his eyebrows.

“For now, I think this will do, but I’ll consider that in future.”

Caduceus tries to read while Elgon chatters on about the more mundane part of his life: books he’s finished, the degrading quality of school breakfasts year by year, the best horse race he ever attended in his youth. Caduceus tunes out most of it from necessity. There’s nothing in the tomes to suggest that Bahamut or his followers ever specialized in the resurrection of dead earth, at least not that he can find, though his reading is still very slow. There’s a strong history within the religion of rooting out corruption, of course, but that’s a mission shared between most clerical domains. Maybe Jester was more right than she knew, and the explanation is simpler than he imagined. If the presence of a divine force is enough to allow the plants a space to bloom, then what sort of force is that divinity holding at bay?

Caduceus chews on that thought, tuning back in as Elgon switches to one of his favourite topics of conversation: complaining about Headmistress Tross.

“Did I ever tell you that she’s never been down to the library?” He had. “ _Never_. Imagine, being the head of a school and not ever bothering to learn yourself.”

“You were around when she was hired, right? How did she get this position?”

Elgon snorts. “It was a political move, I promise you that. She was a bureaucrat. From what I know, very high up in the government. Not the Cerberus Assembly, mind you – the government proper. She was suggested by King Dwendal himself after Headmaster Valorna’s departure.”

“Why appoint a bureaucrat and not a mage?”

“The mystery of the century. You want my opinion? I think the Crown wasn’t happy with how the Assembly was running the school. Master Valorna was a member of the Cerberus Assembly, you see, and he didn’t leave of his own accord, at least not by my account. I think they forced him out, so they could put someone in here to keep an eye on things. Someone who’d make sure the Crown’s interests and regulations were being represented.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” he says, still a little confused. It had gotten into his brain that the Cerberus Assembly _was_ the government, and to find out otherwise isn’t earth-shattering, but it is surprising. He’ll get Beau to draw him a diagram, one day.

“Regardless, I’d rather have Valorna than Tross, but she’s who we’re stuck with. I guess we all just have to find our ways to deal with the situation.”

“Indeed.” Caduceus flips the book closed, and as he does his stomach rumbles. It must be later than he’d thought. “Thank you for your help and your company, as always.”

“My pleasure,” Elgon murmurs. After the fervor of his annoyance with administration, he looks ready to fall asleep again.

Caduceus bids the halfling farewell and heads back upstairs. The sun is beginning to dip, but it’s not yet nightfall. Perfect. He still has time. He makes a brisk pace towards the temple, stepping carefully around the painted rocks he’s placed as markers for the spots where the corruption grows fainter. The last lies just along the path to the temple’s curved walls.

A knock on the front door, which was left open when he was here earlier in the day, yields no response. When he pauses to listen, there’s no sound of movement within. When he tries the handle, he finds the door locked.

Kneeling, he places his hand to the ground and reaches out to the new plants that grow around the base of the walls.

 _Where are the people that were inside?_ he asks.

 _Left,_ they whisper in their wordless language. _Five came. Two stay._

_Where are the two that stayed?_

A ripple courses out through the grass beneath his feet, the bending of communication as he waits for a response.

_Below._

***

 “ _Ja_ , I’ve finished.” He looks down at the pages of copied text. It barely registers as more than a crosshatch of jagged lines beneath his tired gaze, but it’s complete. Whether he’ll be able to cast it still remains to be seen.

Ikithon stands over him, poring over his messy work. Caleb holds his breath and waits for the rebuke about his sloppiness, but Ikithon only pats him on the shoulder. “I’m impressed with your speed.”

 _I had good motivation to finish_.

The hand leaves him and instead goes to Ikithon’s robes, searching inside and pulling out a vial of something that almost looks like mud, though it’s got traces of black laced through the brown. As Ikithon sets it on the desk, a light shimmers within its center, like a star is trapped in the swirling vortex of motion. He blinks, and the light is gone.

Beside the vial, Ikithon places a syringe, with a long, thin needle. Caleb’s stomach bottoms out.

“You’ve grown a great deal, Bren, even just in this last week. Your grasp on dunamancy is truly astonishing. The same spell you just completed took Mirel weeks to grasp the basics of, and here you are, with a functional understanding after mere hours.” Caleb thinks back on Mirel’s flashing eyes, and her burning, jealous glare. Things come into focus. “Even still, this magic is dangerous: as untamable as the Xhorhasian wastes. I would not have you attempt this spell without preparation.”

Ikithon pulls up an armchair and sits, drawing the vial and the needle towards himself. “Through a series of complicated measures, and a great deal of resources, we’ve managed to extract an… essence, if you will, of dunamis. In its concentrated form, it serves to enhance a caster’s connection to the shifting planes of space and time. The effects are short, but potent, and you will find it will make the first effort at this spell easier to maintain.”

Caleb stares down at the needle, a revulsion crawling through his skin that he can’t quite name: the afterimage of some nightmare he’s forgotten. “Will it hurt?” he asks, mouth dry as sand.

“For a short while. We have an excellent chemist, the best in the Empire, and I believe through his efforts even the initial pain with soon be obsolete. According to Lady DaRogna – though I suppose you wouldn’t remember her, you will have to be re-introduced, in time – this is the first of his newest batch, and there have been several promising modifications in the last few days.”

The mention of the chemist flies right past as Ikithon stretches out his hand and gestures for Caleb to lay his arm across the table. He doesn’t move. He can’t. “Roll up your sleeve.” He _can’t_. “There’s no need for apprehension. I’ve tested the same substance on myself. I assure you, it’s quite safe.”

There’s no need to be frightened of this, any more than what Ikithon could do to his mind, which is the far more credible threat. And it will make him stronger. It will help him learn more of this magic, this magic that might be the answer to a desperate prayer. He has squandered too much in his life out of fear or pride.

Slowly, Caleb rolls his sleeve to his shoulder and offers his arm.

The many scars stand in white relief as Ikithon takes his wrist and wraps a strip of cloth around his upper arm, tightening till Caleb can feel his own heartbeat in his wrist, and how fast it’s pounding. Ikithon must feel it too, because he rubs his thumb over Caleb’s fluttering pulse.

“Breathe, Bren. This will not harm you.”

The needle pierces the film over the vial without a sound, and Caleb keeps very still, very silent, as the tip enters his vein. In a flash of red hot pain, he sees the image of another office, and Ikithon’s smoother face framed by locks of jet black hair, and the sheen of a knife reflecting shards of green. But the burst of searing fire running up his arm burns away what little he could grasp of the scene before his mind can fully comprehend it, or chase down the source of his irrational terror.

As always, he prefers the pain over the fear.

For a few minutes, the burning is all he is: an ache that runs through every bloodway in his body, and it feels right, to die from the inside out. When he finally breathes through the waves of pain, he finds the world a mutated place. Ikithon stands, and sits, and is as far from Caleb as he needs him to be, and Caleb could be across the room in an instant if he wished it, or rather, the other side of the room would come to _him_.

He sees it all, every possibility, and he is in _everything_ , but only for a moment. Then the world refocuses, and though all things still seem overly bright, he’s no longer transcendent.

He thinks of Nott, and her flask, and wonders if she feels the same high when the whiskey fills her veins. If so, he thinks he finally understands what it means to be brave.

“How do you feel?” Ikithon asks.

Caleb sees the future laid out in front of him: all the possibilities that could never be, until they could. The impossible things that are now within his grasp. He looks Ikithon dead in the eye without flinching.

“Powerful.”

***

It takes Fjord the better part of their walk to realize where exactly he and Mirel are headed.

“We’re going to the Headmistress’s office.”

“Well spotted.”

“She part of the lesson too?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

The children who usually frequent the halls are off to bed at his point, or at least the younger ones are. Night’s truly upon them now, and Jester will be waiting for him, but he’s got no way to contact her or Caduceus and tell them he won’t be coming.

Mirel nods to the attendants at the door as they approach. To Fjord’s surprise, instead of opening the doors, they simply turn on their heels and exit the hallway. The display does nothing to alleviate the unease settling in his stomach.

Mirel shoves the doors open and Fjord follows.

Headmistress Tross is seated at her desk when they enter, but she’s already standing by the time Fjord finishes closing the door. From this side of the door, he notices that the orbs that form the pattern of the planar system reach all the way through the heavy wood, creating a diorama of negatives in smooth glass.

“Master Mirel,” Tross says, looking taken aback. “I wasn’t expecting you at this hour.” She glances at Fjord. “And Mr. Fjord, how-?”

Mirel snaps her fingers.

“Sleep.”

Tross’s head drops to her chest, eyes gone glassy and vague.

Fjord stands, frozen to the spot, as Tross’s body sways in place like a broken marionette. “What- what did you-?”

Mirel ignores him and starts climbing the steps. He watches, unable to follow but equally afraid to tear his shocked gaze away as Mirel grabs Tross under one arm and guides her back into the chair. Her head lolls from side to size as she settles, sharp expression faded to something utterly vacant.

“Get up here.”

Fjord doesn’t move. “What did you do to her?”

“For fuck’s sake...” she mutters as she storms back down the steps. “Don’t you know a good thing when you see it, or are you just that stupid?”

“She’s the Headmistress!” His brain is reeling, trying to piece together the remains of a shattered puzzle he’d almost thought he had sorted out.

“She’s a pencil-pusher and a government puppet,” Mirel explains, as though to a particularly slow child. “All she cares about is filling her monthly quota for the army, getting students in and out. People like that never want to put time or resources on where the real progress comes from.” She smirks. “We removed the obstacle.”

He thinks he knows the answer already, but he asks anyway. “We? Who’s we?”

“Those of us who are tired of a government that doesn’t know the first thing about magic looking over our fucking shoulder and deciding what’s best. What, are you upset? Don’t tell me you actually liked the woman.” He didn’t, but she was the last thread of rationality he was holding onto, the proof that there was some sort of order to this whole fucked up mess.

Every assumption he’s made until this point is crumbling under collapsing pillars of doubt. He’d thought he was going after the small fish on the way to the top. First step, Mirel, and then Tross would be the real challenge. But if Tross isn’t in charge of the school, if she’s functionally incapacitated by a word and a snap, then who holds the power? Who’s making the decisions? Is every Master aware that they’re free to do what they want, without oversight?

If Caleb was wrong, if breeding war mages is no longer the school’s primary objective, then what progress is the mysterious _we_ working towards?

He’s at the top of the steps, barely conscious of having moved.

“You don’t get it yet, but you will. We can do anything. _You_ can do anything. Just pass the test, and you’re on your way.” She pulls aside a hanging behind Tross’s desk, revealing a blank stretch of wall and a thin doorway. “Let’s go.”

The door leads to a set of stone steps, moving down into darkness. Fjord stares for a long moment at the unmoving body of Tross before hurrying after Mirel, his mind awash with questions and what he can now definitively quantify as fear.

He doesn’t trust her, but he follows Mirel down into the dark. 

***

Jester throws open the doors to the temple. Julia gives her a teary wave. “So, you’re going then? Master Kirn told us this morning.”

“I’ll miss you guys,” she says. She will. She’s decided that’s the one thing she’ll think back on happily.

Jester glances at Andras. He’s avoiding her gaze, staring at the floor. Eli’s avoiding her too, curled up in a corner with his books. She goes to him first, because he is the easier of the two, and she is not feeling particularly brave in this moment.

“Eli,” she says. “I might need some help with the chants. They’re super complicated, and you’re the best at them out of everyone.” He looks up at her.

“You’re the one graduating,” and oh, there’s a little red-rimmed jealousy there.

“Yeah, but I’m still pretty bad at the chants. You know that.” He turns back to his books, and she interposes her bright smile between him and the page. “You’ll get your turn soon, I promise,” she whispers, softly enough that the other two can’t hear. Eli shakes his head, but closes his book.

“Fine,” he says. “Just show me the parts you need help on.”

“I definitely will, in a bit.” Jester looks back at Andras. “I just remembered, I dropped something outside. My ribbon!” she decides, because it’s the only thing she’s got in her pocket. “Andras, will you help me look for it?”

He trails on her heels out into the sunshine. She turns back and leans down till they’re near the same height.

“You found a way out,” he says.

“I promised I’d get you out too, and I will,” she says quickly. “It’s not going to be right now. But look,” and she points out to the clearing. “Do you ever see that really tall guy with the pink hair around here?” Andras nods. “He’s pretty hard to miss, right? He’s one of my friends. That’s Caduceus. There’s also Fjord, he’s a half-orc with _itty-bitty_ tusks, ok? And dark hair, and a bunch of scars on his face. And a human with long… with _short_ red hair who always looks like he’s dropped his ice cream in the gutter? That’s Caleb. Those are all my friends, and they’re all still here, and I’m going to get all of them out too, so if you need help, run and find one of them, ok? When we all leave, I’ll make sure they know to take you.”

Andras stares at her, then he puts his hand on her shoulder, and Jester feels a familiar wave of divine warmth spread down from where his smaller touch rests. “Bahamat’s blessing on you,” he whispers, and throws his arms around her shoulders. “Please come back.”

“I will. I will.”

\---

Kirn supervises while she reads aloud, which Jester appreciates. Some of the phrasings in the book are tricky, and while the Common translations are surprisingly musical in cadence, there are words that obviously didn’t translate well from the original Draconic. Eli, true to his word, does help her quite a lot with remembering when to kneel and to stand amidst the endless pages of liturgy.

She speaks the chants almost without thought, lines about duty and devotion and eternal service to a higher power, about giving her body and soul to the cause of righteousness, and all the while her heart cries out to the Traveler to hear her. _I’m talking about you, you know?_ He knows. He has to. It doesn’t matter if Bahamut is the name on her lips, it’s her heart that matters, and she infuses every word with the love she feels for him. Through the light breaking through the dome, his love suffuses every part of her. By the end, she really does feel holy.

Jester reaches the last pages of the book when the light is just starting to fade, and Julia takes her to a back room to change into ceremonial garb. Her belongings she carefully folds and stuffs into a pouch under her blessedly voluminous robes the second Julia leaves the room, but she slips the Traveler’s archway into a pocket, still within easy reach. It seems almost to glow in her palm as she tucks it away, and she feels protected beyond measure.

“Bind me now into your service, and let me be reborn as one who walks in your light.”

It’s the last line on the last page, and Jester murmurs it kneeling before the altar in her robes of white and silver. Even Master Kirn’s expression is awed, his eyes filled with the same hope as hers. He offers her a hand. She takes it.

“Jester will now enter the period of contemplation, before she leaves to join our brothers and sisters at the border,” Kirn announces to the room. Jester looks back at the faces of her newfound companions. The pews at once seem unbearably empty. Too late, she realizes that Fjord and Caduceus never arrived, and the light in her heart dims, just a little. But from behind, the Traveler’s arms wrap around her shoulders.

_I am with you._

She melts into his embrace. She’s not alone. She never is.

“Come, young one,” Kirn leads her down from the altar. “It is almost finished.”

She’s almost free.

He takes her through another locked door, this one leading to a spiralling staircase that leads down into the earth. She pauses halfway onto the first step, confused. “Are we actually going to meditate? I thought that was just for show.”

He hushes her. “Here we will have some privacy.” He offers his hand again. “You have trusted me this far?”

She has. She takes the hand.

The room they find themselves in at the bottom of the staircase is little more than a storage cellar, fit with little crates and boxes, but a few cozy chairs as well. She doesn’t see any other exits, other than the staircase they just left.

“Are you going to teleport us out of here?” she asks, skin tingling with painful memories, of dying, or something near to it. “Because that really didn’t go well the last time…”

He places his clawed hands on her shoulders. “It is a different sort of teleportation that I must perform. One that is very distinct from what the wards of the school prevent. You’ll find that it will bring you where you need to be. It will feel strange at first, but please do not be alarmed.”

“It’s ok,” she says. “I’m ready.”

He smiles at her with a fondness that catches her off-guard, like she’s something precious and new.

“I do believe you are, my dear girl.”

And then the world begins to fade as her body tingles into nothingness, and all she sees are stars, all around.

***

They spend a session in the conjured room, and though Caleb doesn’t quite manage to cast the spell, he gets very near to it. It’s just out of his reach, but nearly there, close enough to choke him with the anticipation. He asks for twenty minutes more, but Ikithon insists on ending on the hour. “Much longer and we risk damage to your body. I would not permit that. Besides, the dunamis will soon fade, and I cannot recommend a second dose so soon after the first.” And indeed, when they step back into the office, Caleb nearly collapses from the strain of the effort. He lets Ikithon guide him back to one of the armchairs, where he gratefully dozes all the way through dinner. He only wakes to the clatter of dishes as Ikithon’s tray is taken away.

He’s still tired, but far more aware than he was. He sits up. 9:47. Ikithon is still at his desk, perusing a letter of some sort by candlelight.

Caleb rises to his feet and stretches. He’s already here far later than usual, and he has things yet to accomplish in the evening, but Ikithon calls out to him before he can reach the door.

“Bren. One moment more.” He shuffles over, rubbing one sore eye with the back of his hand. “You may have wondered where I disappeared to this morning.”

“I’d assumed it was to retrieve the potion.”

“That as well. But there was another matter, one I’d hoped put to rest before I needed mention it. It seems my attempts were unsuccessful.”

He hands the folded letter to Caleb. Caleb unfolds the parchment. He makes it about halfway down the page before his throat starts burning.

_-in the matter of The Cobalt Soul (r. Beauregard Lionett) v. Trent Ikithon, the Crown kindly requests your attendance-_

“Your monk friend has decided to take up her dispute with the seat of government herself.”

“That does sound like her,” he says after a pregnant pause.

“A minor inconvenience, but an inconvenience nonetheless.” Ikithon considers him carefully. “I had thought, perhaps, that you would accompany me to the court.”

“What?”

“You’ve made good progress in your magical studies, and I think it’s time we resumed the social ones. It would not hurt, to begin your reintegration into society early. Thankfully,” he gestures towards Caleb’s clipped hair, “you already look the part.”

Caleb stares down at the letter, unbreathing.

“Come along, Bren. Help me set the record straight.”

***

The darkness becomes less oppressive as Fjord and Mirel descend down into a stone corridor and the line of sconces along the wall light their passage. Fjord keeps a careful catalogue, trying to make sense of their progress as they move through one corridor and down another long, steep flight of steps. They must be at least a hundred feet deep now, maybe more. Occasionally, hallways branch out in either direction, leading no doubt to the chambers that Caleb mentioned all the way back on their first night in Rexxentrum. _There were screams,_ he’d said. Fjord strains his ears. He doesn’t hear a thing.

Sweat drips down the back of his neck as they pass another intersection of corridors and he’s met with a wave of heat to his left. “What’s down there?” he asks. Mirel doesn’t answer. Her pace is quickening, so much that Fjord is almost jogging to keep up.

They turn the corner, and at the end of the hallway he finally spies the end to the blank stone. Two doors lie at the end of the corridor, each made of heavy iron and featureless except for a thin slit near eye level. He’s been in enough prisons to recognize the rooms as cells. Mirel produces a key from deep within the folds of her robes, and Fjord quirks an eyebrow. “What, no magic locks?”

“No need,” she says as the first door clicks open. “We don’t keep anything too powerful down here.”

The door swings open and light spills onto the meagre furnishings. A chair and a table, a bed with twisted blankets. No windows. Mirel snorts.

“Looks like we got here too early.”

“We waiting for something?”

The unease only spreads as Fjord stares at the empty chair. It’s bolted to the floor, and he can just make out trails of some dried dark substance along the armrests.

“Yes.” Mirel leans herself against the wall and crosses her arms.

“For what?” He swallows, hard.

“Your lesson to arrive.”

***

Jester is cold.

She’s lying on something hard that digs into her hips, as though she’s slept many nights on a slab of concrete, and she is _cold._ It’s like the stone beneath her is leaching heat right from her core. Her eyes focus on the ceiling, which seems to be made of some sort of packed earth. She tries to sit up, but there’s something restricting her movement.

Looking down the length of her body, though there’s not much light she can see that she’s wrapped in fabric, right up to her chin: something light and gauzy that does nothing to ward off the chill. She wriggles her shoulders until it starts to pull free, allowing her arms enough room to move, and the moment she has enough mobility she plunges her hand into her pocket and grabs the Traveler’s symbol.

“Yasha?” she whispers, and her mouth feels all wrong, like her tongue has become scaly leather in its dryness, shrunken to something far too thin. “Yasha, can you hear me?”

The magic never muffles down. It leaves her chest, free and unrestricted, and tears of relief flow unrestrained from the corners of her eyes as she tries to hold in the sob long enough to get the rest of her message out.

“It’s me, it’s Jester, I’m here, we’re coming for you, please say you’re alright Yasha tell me where you are Yasha please message me back-”

**_Jester?_ **

Jester’s heart soars as Yasha’s tentative voice fills her head.

**_It’s so good to hear your voice, I was worried- are_ ** **you _alright? I’m… I don’t know, but I’m with Yeza. He’s ok. We’re-_**

She’s ok.

She’s with Yeza, and she’s ok.

_Thank you, Traveler, oh, thank you-_

Jester wrestles her hands out of the shroud of fabric, lifting the symbol to the dim light with a radiant, tear-stained smile.

The hand that holds the archway seems to shimmer as she moves it, like her skin is painted with a reflective coat of varnish. What’s more, the surface is cracked into pieces that seem to shift as she turns it to and fro.

Jester sits up, shrugging off the rest of the material and holding out her arms in front of her.

Through the space between her fingers she sees tables lining the edges of the room she’s in. On each surface lies another shroud: some pulled over their occupants, others left open to reveal mangled limbs, skin torn through with the points of black and green and gold, scales bursting out of their arms and legs in ragged patches.

Bodies.

Dead bodies, frozen in tortured tableaus of mutated agony.

And her _arms_.

Where once were smooth skin and manicured nails, there are now rows of pristine blue scales and curved talons. Jester covers her mouth in horror. Her palms close around a long, thin snout, and the tip of razor-sharp fangs.  
  



	14. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is typically where I'd leave you all in suspense for another few chapters while we bounce to other characters, but nope! This time, we're picking up right where we left off! Aren't I nice ;)
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings: canon-typical body horror (if you're very squeamish, maybe skip the paragraph that starts with "A human - or something that used to be a human"), creepy but definitely non-sexual touching

This is a dream. It’s a dream. It has to be.

Some sick, messed up dream.

Jester pulls off the rest of the shroud to find she’s still dressed in the ceremonial robes Julia helped her into, layers of white linen tucked carefully beneath her legs. Her feet are bare: wide, flat, scaly things, and when she wiggles her toes three vicious-looking talons wiggle back.

This can’t possibly be real.

Jester pushes herself off the table, not wanting to spend another second with skin touching the cold stone or the shroud. When she lands her legs twist at an odd angle, tingling as though they’ve been asleep for days, and a ripple of heady exhaustion passes through her as she stumbles. Her knees jut out beneath the robes like they’re dislocated, but no, it’s just that the joints are bowed where once they bent. The claws on the back of her feet dig into the earth and help keep her righted, and after a few swooping missteps she manages to find her footing. This body, that is _definitely not her body_ , seems to know how to move instinctually, but she still walks like a child would, supporting each faltering step with a hand on a nearby surface as she tries to adjust to the new gait.

The table she woke on is long and ovular, with a smoothed indent in the center that’s just the right shape for a humanoid body to nestle into. The outside of the rim is ringed with Draconic symbols, which Jester only recognizes from their similarity to the ones in the book Kirn gave her, and embedded between the symbols are jagged shards of crystal, or maybe glass? They pulse with a faint glow, their green facets reflecting an unseen light. When she touches one of them, she sees stars.

Not figurative stars, either, and they’re more real the dreamlike ones she drifted through while she slept. She literally watches stars unfold before her eyes - an expanding universe alive only for a moment, there and then gone - and then it’s as though she’s falling from a great height, her stomach dropping in time with the illusory descent. Jester snatches her hand away from the crystal, gasping for air, not so much stunned by the vision as mystified.

What she just saw... it’s the same as what she sees when she looks into the dodecahedron. Or at least, it’s close to it, only this time she didn’t come out feeling as though she’d gained some deep insight into things to come. She only feels more disoriented, more lost.

The tables around the outside of the room are made of simple wood and unadorned. Against every instinct that tells her to stay far away, that’s desperate to protect her from what she’ll find, Jester drags her unsteady feet up to the closest one. Hands trembling, she draws aside the crepelike fabric that’s already yellowed and starting to rot through.

A human - or something that used to be a human - lies beneath the disintegrating cloth. Their skin is rough, ridged almost, and the skeleton doesn’t sit right beneath their skin. It’s like someone’s melted all their bones to taffy and stretched them out to the wrong angles. Broken teeth jut from the open mouth, lips peeled like grapes around pearls of white and gums protruding further than should be physically possible. Clumps of hair nestle near the bare bits of skull where the tips of scales push out: some no more than bumpy nubs, others fully emerged and criss-crossed like rocky outcroppings, nothing like the smooth symmetry of her own scales.

Despite the rotting shroud, the body shows no signs of decay. Even so, Jester doesn’t need to check to know that the creature is dead. Nothing could have survived that being done to them. Gently, Jester draws the shroud over the deformed head and presses her hands back to her mouth, fighting not to be sick.

The body wore the same robes as hers.

She doesn’t want to do this. She wants to curl up in a ball and fall back asleep and wake up somewhere safe, with her mother’s arms around her and her friends waiting behind the door. Even her tears don’t feel right, too hot when they fall and too cool when they dry, and even if she closes her eyes she can’t escape how this strange new body moves with her, even if it doesn’t feel like her at all.

The door at the end of the room creaks and Jester stumbles behind the stone table, holding her holy symbol out like a shield with both hands.

Master Kirn. His robes are different now: ceremonial, like hers, like the bodies’, shifts of white against iridescent silver and gold. He looks at her, not moving from the door, and his eyes are open and filled not with malice, but with overwhelming _joy_.

“It worked,” he breathes. “It finally worked. Oh, Jester, I _knew_ you were the one.”

“What the _fuck_ did you do to me?” Jester shrieks as her spiritual weapon materializes from the ether. Kirn looks startled as he glances up and realized what she’s conjured, but he whispers a word and the lollipop blinks back out of existence. Wheeling around the edge of the table, she rushes towards him, summoning enough necrotic energy in her palm to inflict, just, _awful_ wounds when she punches his ugly, double-crossing face, but her body locks up just feet from her mark, and the energy disperses into the air around her outstretched hand.

“Jester, please be calm, _please_. I know that you have many questions, and I will explain them all to you, if you give me _time_.” He closes the distance between them, lowering her hand with his own, and she can’t escape as his claws trail the edge of her cheek with an almost fearful reverence.

“I know this is frightening, but I will not harm you. I will _never_ harm you.” She shakes her head, as far as the spell will allow, desperate to pull away. His fingers move to the edge of where her hair once was, lighting on the bones above her eyes and the elongated curve of her jaw, cataloguing every inch of her with delicate care. His thumb swipes through one of the many tear tracks that runs to her chin, and his expression shifts from wonder to fatherly concern. All at once, her anger and fear melt away, a numb sort of calmness smoothing over the panic that was building in her chest.

She was very afraid only moments ago, and it’s not like she doesn’t remember _why_ she felt that way, but the reasons don’t seem nearly as pressing now as they were before.

He drops the holding spell, eyes softening with relief as he cups her chin between his palms. She blinks, not able to process exactly what’s happened, but not immediately pulling away.

“I promise, no harm will come to you,” he repeats, voice rough with age and emotion both. “You are a perfect creation: the bright, shining hope of my people.”

***

They wait in the dark for what feels like hours. Fjord gives up on talking to Mirel after his second ignored attempt at conversation. She thrums with restless energy, stalking around the room and running her palms over each of the fixtures in turn, clicking her tongue and scoffing at nothing.

The empty table bears a few food stains that someone’s mopped up rather poorly, and what remains smells rancid. Whoever’s cell this is, it’s been occupied recently.

The bed is unmade, and eventually, for lack of anything better to do, he goes over and sits. At least it keeps him out of the path of Mirel’s pacing. The stiff mattress is covered only by a thin sheet. He runs his nails over the fabric and when he lifts his hand, he finds thin strands of filament caught between his fingers: broken strands of silvery hair, twisted into a tangled snarl.

He goes over the things he knows, scattered thoughts chasing each other like rabbits in a trap, with no direction or conclusions to be found.

Tross, at least in some sense, is not acting under her own power.

Caleb is with Ikithon, who taught Mirel, so if Mirel can control Tross it stands to reason Ikithon can as well. Judging by the way she was talking in the Headmistress’s office, he’d be very surprised if they’re the only ones who can.

Jester is leaving tonight under the guidance of a priest of Bahamut, who may or may not know that the administration supposedly running this school is a sham.

Caduceus is convinced that the plants on the grounds are dead, but illusioned to appear alive.

Yasha is gone.

Yeza is here, somewhere, maybe, but were they even sure about that? They assumed it without proof, predicated on a vague recollection from Caleb’s past. They don’t know anything for sure.

He doesn’t know much of anything, it seems.

Sounds, rising above Mirel’s pacing: footsteps in the hall, and something being shuffled along the stone floor. Mirel moves to the door and Fjord shadows her, peering over her shoulder down the corridor.

His breath catches in his throat.

Two figures approach: men in black armor, just like Yeza described. Hung between them, broad shoulders spread wide and feet dragging on the ground: the unconscious form of a dark-haired aasimar.

Yasha.

 _Yasha_.

He pushes past Mirel, chest filled to bursting with uncontainable excitement, but sharp nails dig into his forearm and hold him in place. “Give it a moment,” Mirel murmurs, maneuvering Fjord back into the room to give the two body-bearers space to pass.

She’s right here. Yasha’s been here all along, just below their feet.

His excitement deflates as Fjord takes in the state she’s in. Yasha is not currently bleeding, but there are remnants of bruises and cuts across her exposed skin, greenish shades that have to be days old, but still new enough to make his stomach churn. She’s impossibly still, even as the two guards deposit her into the chair at Mirel’s instruction. Up close, something about their dress strikes Fjord as familiar, but he’s too intent on Yasha’s slack face to consider about what detail peaked his memory.

“Hmm,” says Mirel, staring down at Yasha, “I wonder what DaRogna’s put you under,” and she wheels back and slaps her across the face.

Fjord’s got his hand around Mirel’s wrist in an instant, wrenching her in a circle until her back is to Yasha, until her eyes are only focused on him. “What the _hell_?” he hisses, and she shoves him off with the same fervour. “What was that for?”

“Not much you can get from a prisoner who’s out cold. _Information_ ,” Mirel sneers at his confusion. “Did you think we were here for a social call?”

He didn’t think anything.

He didn’t expect to see Yasha today, of all days, or to be stuck below the earth with a woman he’s apparently severely underestimated looming in the space between them.

Mirel’s face is split in two by the light from the doorway and what of his shadow falls over her, and the half that’s still illuminated twitches between amusement and something far darker.

The two guards exit, shutting the door and cutting off the light entirely.

In the scant seconds before his eyes readjust Mirel has already moved, and when the shades of grey begin to fade in she stands behind Yasha, hands clasped over her bare shoulders with a grip that would probably sting, were Yasha awake to feel it.

Is it magical sleep? Poison? Exhaustion? Yasha’s pallor is as white as it always was, but not ashen - she doesn’t seem sick. Just… absent.

“What are we doing here?” he asks warily, pacing to the left of the chair. The strip of light from the doorway falls across Yasha’s collarbone, highlighting the shallowness of her breath. If he gets close enough, he might be able to get a hand on her neck, check if she’s healthy, check if she’s-

“You said it yourself,” Mirel says. Her nails dig into skin, and Yasha doesn’t flinch. Yasha doesn’t move. “So far, we have nothing to show for our time together. That isn’t endearing, for you or for me.” Any tighter, and she’ll start to draw blood. “Some concrete results would go a long way. Aren’t you sick of being bottom of the heap? Well, consider this your ticket to the top of the class.”

Fjord steels himself, just barely holding back from leaping at her again and shoving her into the back wall. He wants her hands off Yasha, _now_. But the lightning she summons can level him in one hit even when he’s at his strongest, and Yasha is defenceless in her current position; he can’t afford to be the cause of an errant spark.

“What kind of results?”

“The kind my master couldn’t get,” she says sweetly, and he relaxes just a little as Mirel straightens up and releases Yasha, pushing back her hair with one hand. It’s hotter in here than he’d realized, hot enough that the both of them are starting to sweat. He’d thought it was just the nerves that were making his neck clammy. “He wants quite a bit from her. After all, how often do we find a Xhorhasian spy in our midst?”

The lacerations start to come together with the bolts that hold the chair down into a grisly picture, and white-hot anger burns through his veins. “I’ve travelled with this woman for _years_ ,” he grits out. An exaggeration, but in this moment, it feels like the truth. “She’s no spy, I assure you.” Vandren’s accent holds true, with barely a waver. He is as convincing as he is capable of being.

It isn’t enough.

Mirel laughs, the sound bright and piercing and too high, too sharp. “A deserter then, even better. See, we’re already learning so much.”

 _Distract her. Keep her off Yasha. Keep her focused on you._ “You said there would be a lesson.”

“So I did.” Whatever it is, he’ll do it. Give her what she wants, maybe can earn enough to bargain Yasha back for good, or at least bargain her into a better position. “Actually, I believe I said a _test_. What have you learned this last week?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “True weakness only comes from the inside. You’ve known this woman for years? Then who better to weasel their way beneath that thick skin?”

...

_No._

“She has information that Master Ikithon sorely wants, which makes her valuable. Which makes _you_ valuable, theoretically. I’m still not convinced.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know. Whatever he gives freely is always taken as an invitation to ask for more.

“I want you to burn the truth right out of her.”

***

“I did not want you to wake up in a place such as this.”

Kirn wanders to one of the tables and Jester trails after him, not quite wanting to leave his side, but not particularly wanting to venture closer to all the bodies either. She isn’t frightened of them anymore, but they still make her shiver.

“With Vash, I was so certain…” he says, drawing aside the shroud to reveal another body, this one long and slender. An arm is missing. There’s too little left of the face to begin to guess at race. “I prepared another room beyond, one more fitting, but he never woke. I couldn’t bear to bring you there until I knew, beyond a doubt...” The regret hangs heavy in his voice. Jester stares at the body, anxious pangs of fear rising in her chest that swiftly even back out into apathy.

Vash. She knows that name. Andras said she was Vash’s replacement, which means he was a kid, just like Andras, just like Julia and Eli. And Kirn did something to him, something he tried again on Jester, only Vash didn’t survive it.

Kirn killed him.

Why isn’t she angry?

“I couldn’t bear it, to be wrong again,” he continues, replacing the shroud over Vash’s head.

Why isn’t she terrified?

“But now that I know, now that you are _here,_ I can begin to prepare a more suitable place for your rest and recovery.” He turns back to her, and her body moves to flinch backwards even as her mind tells her there’s nothing to fear.

But isn’t there?

“He’s dead,” she murmurs. “He’s dead, and I should be really scared, but I’m not.”

“My dear, there is nothing wrong with being afraid. Anyone would be in your situation. It will take time to adjust. But do not worry, I’ll be with you the whole way, guiding your steps - and whenever you need it, easing the fear from your mind."

Oh.

So it’s like Caduceus then. He’s admitted to her, without shame, that he has a spell to help himself calm down when things became too much. Kirn must think this is too much for her.

It is, if she’s being honest.

He killed Vash. He killed all of them.

She is no longer afraid, but she is also not stupid, and with the clarity that the unnatural calmness provides, she can finally start to puzzle out the position she’s in, and what she needs to do to get out of it.

She needs to know where she is. She needs to know what’s been done to her. She needs to find a way to leave this place. She needs to understand if Kirn’s promise not to hurt her is genuine.

There. Lots of questions, and Kirn promised to answer all of them. Panicking would not have helped her at all, she thinks.

“How did you do it?” Jester asks, drifting back over to the center table. It doesn’t hold the same revulsion as it did only minutes ago, but she makes no move to touch the crystals again. “How did you make me… like this?”

He draws out the book of chants from his robes and places it on the table in front of her. Side by side, the symbols don’t quite align, but the lettering is similar. “This is the most precious thing I managed to recover from the Great Temple before it fell.” He makes a few quick gestures with his finger and the symbols on the cover shimmer and rearrange themselves into Common.

“The Rite of Rebirth,” she reads aloud.

“It is a ceremony has not been practiced since the Age of Arcanum. A ritual gifted by Bahamut, opening the path to his light to all that would seek it. For those truly dedicated souls, it was a means to become like him, born of his image as the first Dragonborn were in centuries past. Only once in all my years have I seen it performed, in its proper form. A human woman came to the Great Temple, and she laid four days and four nights in contemplation beneath the dome of the golden chrysalis: Bahamut’s final gift before the Calamity tore him from our side of the Gate. She emerged reborn, and became a great prophetess for our people. But the chrysalis was shattered in the Conclave’s first attack, and without it any means we had to enact the ritual were sundered.”

His voice drops low with remorse. He seems more upset about the loss of the chrysalis than he was about Vash. Disturbing, in an abstract sort of way.

“I searched all of Exandria for another similar relic. Our numbers are too few to revive, and the great dragons are gone, or in hiding, or do not care for the plight of Bahamut’s faithful. There will be no more of us born of magic when this generation dies. Rebirth is the only path to our salvation. But there was only ever one chrysalis, and Draconia held it, and Draconia fell.

“I turned instead to history, to magics beyond my own. My path led me to Xhorhas, where it was said the Kryn had found a way to take the memories of one lifetime and transfer them to the next. One soul passed between bodies, exactly as I had hoped to find. Though my path through Xhorhas grew too dangerous to remain, my studies led me here to Rexxentrum. Here, where I met some of the greatest magical minds of this age, and they too were interested in what the Kryn had discovered, and what I had learned. I was promised the space to work, and any materials I required, if I would share all I knew. Do you see, Jester? It was a gift from Bahamut himself.”

She sees that he managed to find a whole bunch of other people who didn’t mind experimenting on kids. The divine destiny, not so much.

“Others at the Academy were already hard at work extracting Xhorhasian dunamis and storing it within crystals of residuum. Now I believe they’ve moved on to a more refined approach, but at the time I was given a number of the dunamatic shards as a basis for my work.” Jester glances down at the green crystals driven into the table. So that’s what the Academy was doing with the second beacon, before they gave it to Yeza to work with. “Their power is of a different nature as the chrysalis, but the principle is the same - to unbend the fabric of what was, and shape it into what the caster desires.”

“And the students from the Sanctum?” she asks. “Were they materials too?”

“ _No_ ,” he insists. “No, of course not. They were the most faithful, the most beloved of Bahamut’s favour. Every one dedicated their life wholly to his cause, with joy in their hearts in the offering. Their sacrifices pain me more than you could know, Jester, but they were _necessary_ sacrifices. You are the living proof: this is the path Bahamut intended. With every failure, he showed me more of what I needed to know. He showed me the way.”

 _He believes it_ , Jester thinks. _He’s mad._

_...No, he isn’t._

She sees it now: Kirn is perfectly sane, and all of this is all perfectly justifiable in his eyes. He could have chosen to foster the new generation of Bahamut’s faithful, and instead he chose to murder them all in the name of bringing back something that was never really lost, under a banner of loneliness that could have been salved in any roadside tavern.

He’s not mad.

He’s selfish, narcissistic, _evil_ , but he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Why me?” she asks. “Why aren’t I like them?” She points to the tables.

“I don’t have the answer yet, Jester. Only suspicions. That is what I hope we will discover next, together. It might be that your measure of Draconic blood eased the passage-”

“What?” she blurts out. “I’m not- I’m a _tiefling_.”

 _I_ was _a tiefling_.

“I had assumed- I have never met a blue-skinned tiefling before. Is it not the result of chromatic blood in your ancestry?”

“I-”

Genasi. Her father is Genasi. That’s the reason for her blue skin. The Gentleman is her father, and that’s why her skin is blue. She knows that. She’s sure of it.

That certainty doesn’t stop of a trickle of doubt from creeping into her mind.

“It was enough to give me hope, that you might be destined to be the answer to my prayers. And even if I was wrong, the way you read the chants... Your faith shines bright in you, Jester, brighter than any student I’ve ever taught. You are _radiant_. Never have I heard the words read with such passion, such devotion. My hope grew and was rewarded, because you are here and whole. Bahamut’s light truly shines upon you.”

If that’s true, then Bahamut isn’t just boring, he’s an _asshole._

“What happens now?” she asks. “Am I a real priestess of Bahamut?”

Kirn smiles affectionately and pats her shoulder.

“In a way. But for now, you will stay here and rest awhile, so I can observe you and ensure there are no lingering effects of the ritual. Then I would have you come with me to the Cadre, the last remaining elders of my - of _our_ \- people, where I will present my findings. Once I am certain of the final cause of success in your case, we will begin the call for more supplicants, and by the year’s end a whole new generation may be born.”

Kirn leans on the table, overcome with emotion. Jester stares at him, unmoved by either pity or fear. “Can you imagine it,” he whispers to the empty air. She doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t really seem to care what she thinks. He already got what he wanted from her.

Eventually, he straightens, his eyes noticeably misty. “I must go now, Jester. I have to… I must inform… and prepare… yes. Now, there is much to do. But I will return before long. You’ll find food in the next room, and more comfortable attire, and a place to rest. You must be exhausted.” And she is, she realizes. What reserves of energy she summoned while laying down have quickly drained in the effort of simply staying upright on her unfamiliar limbs, and there’s a great heaviness gathering behind her eyelids that aches of long nights with all her spells spent. “Fear not, you stand on hallowed ground. Nothing may harm you as long as you remain. There is no fiend or devil that could reach you here.” He clasps her hands tightly. “I will return.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving an open door in his wake. As he disappears, so does the soothing balm of his calming magic, and Jester nearly collapses as the brunt of what was suppressed hits her all at once.

Shit. Shit. _Shit._

***

“What do you honestly think she’s going to give us?” Fjord asks, his mind racing. _Stall. Stall her. You can still figure out a way out of this, you just have to_ think _._ “I don’t even know what questions I’m supposed to ask.”

“Oh, I’ll give you the questions, don’t worry. It’s really about you being the one doing the asking.”

“You really think I’m a more talented interrogator than your master?”

She scoffs. “Of course not. But you’re closer. She’s your _friend_ ,” Mirel sing-songs.

“Coworker,” he hastily corrects.

“Mm, I’m noticing a whole lot of reluctance for someone who’s not all that invested.” She snaps her fingers, and a singular orb of light floats up to the ceiling, revealing his face in dim light. “Yes, you look _very_ unconcerned,” she drawls before he can school his expression to something less obviously panicked.

He growls, “Fine, ‘friend’ then. What does it matter? Why not ask me what _I_ know, if you’re so convinced she’s got good information? Maybe she told me something important,” he bluffs. _Keep her eyes here, on you, control the situation, come on-_

“It wouldn’t be much of a test then, now would it?” She lifts her hand and he recoils. “I already know how much pain you can take. I want to know how much you’re willing to deal.” Her hand goes back to Yasha’s shoulder. “One word, and I’ll wake her up, and you’ll ask her some questions and _encourage_ her to be honest. That’s all I need from you. Just a _yes_. I’ll tell you what to do, what to say. It’ll be easy. Once you begin, it will be so, so easy.”

“Why the hell would I agree to this?” he snarls. An arc  shoots from her fingertips, impacting just below the jaw, and his teeth rattle as he clenches down over the pain.

“You think what I taught you came without a price?” she snarls back. “You think you get something for nothing? _Nobody_ gets anything for nothing. Do you want to _be_ someone, or do you want to spend your life grovelling at the feet of your betters?” Her mouth is spit-flecked, voice growing harsher as she advances around the side of the chair. Sweat drips from her temples, leaving trails of black powder in the creases of her neck, and her eyes are bright, and terrible, and filled with pain. “Do you know what I gave to be here?” she spits. “Do you _know_ what he asked of me?”

More sweat drips from her hairline. The perfect lines of kohl have all been washed away, and the foundation below has melted too, revealing the edge of black, diseased spots.

“I won’t do this,” Fjord says, and his legs go out again, cowed beneath the weight of her terrible presence. What rage he’s seen in her before is fully bloomed, hot and all-encompassing as she grabs his hair and forces his head upward. Beneath her sleeve he spies the same ragged scars as Caleb bears.

“I didn’t even tell you to kill her,” she muses through the thin space between teeth, and her words are choked with grief, and the makeup is fully gone now, nothing left to cover the wide patches where the skin has rotted away. The spots are like the ones that mar Ikithon’s face, but deeper, nearly down to the skull, and around them red lines flare out into flowers of weeping infection. “I ask you a hundredth of what I paid, and you still say _no_.”

She releases the hold and he collapses, panting, onto the stone. It burns beneath his touch.

“This is your only chance, Fjord. Say yes. Join us, and the whole of the Cerberus Assembly will be behind you. Freedom, power… you might even be able to get the same for the rest of your _friends_ , in time. Say no, and I will make sure you never lift your neck as a free man again. You’ll both rot down here till you die, a perfect worthless pair.”

 ** _Control_**.

If he refuses, he’ll lose all he has left. If he says yes, if he does this, then at least he won’t be trapped. Then at least he might still be free to-

-help Jester.

-save the rest of his friends.

(-do whatever she asks of him next.)

 ** _Patience_**.

If he says yes, if he sacrifices what’s left of his soul and betrays Yasha just like Sabien did him, he’ll gain a bit of time. A measure of rope longer, added to his chain.

(All the better to hang himself with.)

 ** _Reward_**.

If he does this, he’ll have paid a hundredth of the price she requires; she’s said so herself. That’s a debt he’ll never be able to pay. That is, until she sets him to things far worse than this first task.

In the end, his reward is to be another weapon in some greater thing’s arsenal, and he still doesn’t belong to himself.

If he accepts, he’ll only have added to his list of masters.

If he refuses, he’ll be left on his own, with nothing to give. No way to help. _Nothing._

....

But he’d rather have the chains she puts on him, than to turn the key on the second collar himself. At least this time, it’s his choice to make.

With as much strength as he can muster, Fjord pulls himself to his feet. He holds out his hand and the falchion materializes in his grip.

She grins, triumphant. “Yes?”

He pours everything of himself into one single word.

“ _No._ ”

And he lets an Eldritch Blast fly.

***

With the artificial calmness gone, Jester’s need to get out of the room of corpses is tripled, and as soon as she’s certain Kirn is gone she ventures out through the door. The second room is as he said - comfortable, homey even, but with no visible exit beyond the one she just left.

On a little table, there’s a platter of fresh fruits and sweetmeats and even a singular luscious pastry presented as the centerpiece: a dusted turnover oozing with strawberry jam. She hadn’t told Kirn that she loved pastries. All the other students knew. She’d complained about missing bakeries often enough. He must have asked them what Jester liked.

Whatever hunger was within her shrivels up, and she leaves the food be.

Jester does find the clothes Kirn mentioned, sitting on the couch: a loose linen shift and supple, open-toed sandals, and a gauzy cloak. The fabric feels far too similar to the shroud, and she longs for the comfort of familiar cotton and wool. Feeling beneath her robes, she finds the pouch with her belongings still tied to her waist. She opens it, finds her blue dress and simple bodice, with pink sleeves crumpled but soft, and it all smells like campfire smoke and too many days on the road, and like _her_.

She hadn’t realized she smelled like anything, until she didn’t anymore. This body is too new to carry one. It hasn’t walked the same roads as she has, or lain beside the same people.

Jester undresses quickly, not wanting to look too hard, not yet, and pulls the dress over her head, laces up the bodice, wraps her arms in long sleeves.

Nothing fits quite right.

The bodice is too loose in some places, too tight in others. This body’s chest is flat and curveless but broad, and the laces refuse to tighten at the top. Her skirt is too short, her legs are too long and her leggings won’t go over her clawed feet without tearing.

She collapses onto the couch after ten minutes of struggling, staring in despair at her bare legs and the scales that cover every inch of her.

Is this how Nott felt, waking up in a goblin camp and seeing knobbly knees and green skin, with all her bones fit together wrong?

Is this going to be her life, her whole life?

Is this who she is now?

Will her mother even recognize her?

Jester puts her hands on her knees and breathes, in and out, slowly, like Caduceus taught them all but nobody listened, at the time. She can’t cast Calm Emotions like him or Kirn, but she can keep herself steady. She can keep herself going.

When she’s ready, she clutches the Traveler’s symbol between her palms. She’s exhausted, but before she can sleep, she needs to make sure.

 _Traveler_ , she thinks. _I need you._

If she’s choosing to be optimistic... it all worked out, in a way. She did get what she asked for. Her body is gone, but she has her voice again.

His voice is stronger than it’s ever been, and when he materializes before her, his form is so opaque it’s almost as though he’s standing in the room with her. He opens his arms, face all torn up with an unfamiliar expression, and she eagerly steps into his embrace. He’s angry, she realizes. She has never seen him truly angry.

“This should not have been done,” he hisses. “This is beyond the pale. I will-”

“We can figure that out later,” she says, pulling back so she can look at him properly. “Right now, before I fall asleep on my feet, I need you with me.”

“Always,” he says. “I’m always with you, Jester.”

“Then get ready, because as soon as I wake up, I’ve got a whole _fuckton_ of messages to send.”

***

The battle that follows can scarcely be called a fight. Fjord’s first shot catches Mirel off guard, but she has the benefit of both years of training and having already observed most of his tactics during the last week. He doesn’t get off more than two blasts before lightning - not a spark, but _true_ lightning, the kind that arcs and tears through anything in its path - slams him back against the wall.

His last thought, as he slips into the darkness with the unconscious body of Yasha looming from on high, is that at least he won’t die alone.

But he doesn’t die. He flutters back to consciousness in the arms of one of the black-armoured guards as he’s dragged through an open cell door.

Fjord lets his head hang, the fight gone from his body. There’s no part of him left that doesn’t hurt. A glint of silver catches his eye - the knives stuck into the belt of the second guard, who walks ahead of the first.

 _That’s what I recognized_ , he thinks woozily. _I’ve seen those before._

It was their first night in Rexxentrum - a back alley, and his falchion cleaving uselessly against jab after jab, black-hooded assailants… But what would the Sewn Teeth be doing down here, in the Academy?

It feels important, somehow, but not as pressing as the full-body pain that shoots up through his spine as the guard unceremoniously tosses him onto the stone floor and shuts the door. His whole head reverberates with the impact, and all he can do is drag himself to the bed before his eyes close again.

No light. No sound.

Nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Rite of Rebirth is a real thing in DnD lore, look it up! I stumbled across it while I was researching Bahamut near the beginning of this writing process and went, "Oh, interesting!" and then, "Oh, _no_ ". 
> 
> Also, _Fjord_ , y'all. I can admit at this point that I wasn't exactly sure how the confrontation between Fjord and Mirel was going to go down until about a week and a half ago. I knew it was going to happen at some point, and Mirel had always been set up to be a less severe parallel to Fjord's predicament with Uk'otoa, but I didn't know yet what choice he'd make, figuring I'd roll with it when the time came. But holy hell, I could not have expected Travis Willingham would Do That[TM], and especially not a week before sitting down to start this chapter. It certainly made the path forward pretty clear. 
> 
> Man. _Man_.


	15. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the trial of the century: Beau vs. Ikithon! Place your bets!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut more than a thousand words from my rough draft of this chapter, trying to tighten things up, and it still managed to creep back to almost 10K ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Quick note: I finally got around to updating the tags a bit, but if anyone has any suggestions for something I should include - either a tag that would have helped you find this story, or a content warning I've missed - let me know in the comments!
> 
> One particular tag that I definitely should have had from the start, and would have if it had occurred to me before now: Campaign 1 spoilers. There have already been a few pretty major ones in previous chapters (eg. Kirn's whole deal), and there will be more in chapters to come. If you haven't finished Campaign 1 and don't want to risk getting spoiled for anything, this is your (belated) warning!

The soft light of dawn is just beginning to spill over blue sheets when Caleb puts his last flourishes of ink down to paper. He’s just in time, it seems, a s a knock at the door nearly startles the pen out of his hand. Caleb hurriedly gathers the sheaf of pages spread across his desk and stuffs them into the back of his old spellbook. The knock comes again, and he returns to the little black notebook and flips backwards through the pages until it rests open on the dunamantic spell he’d finished the day before, and adds a few quick strokes to one of the glyphs before placing the used pen back in its jar. Its tip drips with not-yet-dried ink.

“Coming,” he murmurs, then stands and pulls on his new cloak: fine black velvet over panels of forest green. It had materialized on a hook last night, waiting for him when he returned to his bedroom. A gift, maybe, or a consolation for the coat that was never returned. Either way, its tactile weight is soothing, and he draws it close as he opens the door.

Ikithon waits for him on the other side, wearing a cloak of his own. He glances to the notebook on the desk and nods approvingly. “Leave that here. You won’t need it." Caleb nods in return. That’s what he expected. “Shall we?” Ikithon steps aside, inviting him to pass. He hesitates, considering.

Outside this room, he cannot be Caleb Widogast, but Molly’s mask no longer seems to fit right. Too much has been crowding his brain as of late to call himself empty. Too many pieces of himself are waking up after long hibernation. The lie of ignorance will not hold for much longer if he cannot pretend to be dull and thoughtless. Time to pivot, then - shed this unsuited skin and grow instead into something more accustomed. Something closer to the truth.

He slips a new mask into place - or rather, an old one - and his back straightens as he steps over the threshold.

The school is quiet as they walk. The path is as familiar as the one to Ikithon’s office, though Caleb hasn’t yet travelled it since his arrival at the Academy. His mind still scarcely dares to believe it when they step out through the broad doors and into the shadow of the front gate.

The attendants let them pass without comment, but they stare after him, curious of the interloper in their midst. Caleb pulls the cloak tighter around his shoulders, and does not look back. The gates open before them, and then they are on the street, with the Academy at their backs. Caleb takes his first deep breath in days.

A woman is out on her porch, pushing a broom over the steps to clear away any of the night’s debris. Somewhere down the road a dog barks, and a chorus of birds answer back. The strike of a hammer against metal rings out over the din of chirps from some blacksmith’s shop down the way. The city is waking up around them - ordinary, normal people going about their daily lives, with no care or concern for the monsters that walk in their midst.

An older gentleman nods to Ikithon as they pass, and Ikithon returns the smile. Caleb keeps his back straight, but his eyes trained to the ground. If he looks, then it all becomes too much: that the world outside has gone on without him. That all of this still exists, and that, in some ways, Caleb does too.

He thinks about running.

If he took off down the street, would Ikithon shoot him in the back, in front of men and women and dogs alike? If he screamed for help, would anyone believe him a hostage? He doesn’t look the part. He is well-dressed, clean, unmarred, presentable. He walks by Ikithon’s side like an equal.

 _Is_ he a hostage? No one has forbid him to leave, not even Ikithon. He did not protest, at first out of fear, then self-preservation, then the constant, aching desire for more knowledge than he could discover on his own. Is he a hostage, if he has ignored the open cage door, with eyes only for the gifts laid so prettily within its bars? Is he a hostage, if he has sung for his supper without complaint?

_(If you’re lying to yourself, how will you know?)_

Well, it doesn’t matter if he runs or not. The amulet is lost to him. Ikithon might well let him go, but he’d be found again within a day. There is no place that he can hide.

And whatever _he_ is, if he runs, he leaves hostages behind in his stead.

A little girl in tartan stockings darts past, chasing a cat down the street. Caleb has longed to summon Frumpkin so often in the past few days but hasn’t dared, too nervous of what Ikithon might do to the fey creature if he was discovered.

(If he could find Nott, somehow, pull her into his arms and they’d just _go_ -)

“Come along, Bren.” He’s been staring too long after the girl, with her skin that is not green and her eyes that are not gold. Ikithon takes his elbow and gently guides him forward.

(Selfish. As always, he is _selfish_.)

The cat and the girl disappear around the corner, and Caleb follows where he's led.

***

“Is it done?” It had _better_ be fucking done, she paid enough for the rush-

The shopgirl returns from the back of the shop with a brown parchment parcel in her arms. “Need help getting any of this on?” she asks as she passes the package to Beau.

“Nope,” Beau says, scurrying behind the dressing curtain.

Turns out, she needs quite a lot of help, but between the two of them they manage to get all the buttons fastened and the pleats to line up just so. With her wrappings and loose pants flung across a chair at her back, Beau stares into the floor-length mirror at a reflection she barely recognizes.

The frock coat rests barely above her knees, darted in at the waist to create a slim silhouette, but the military cut of the shoulders still manages to accentuate her muscular frame. Two rows of brass buttons hold her vest closed over a white shirt, and the svelte pants taper down into low shoes of black leather. The coat is all in navy blue, and she pulls her hair up into a proper bun and fixes it with a matching comb, its spine encrusted with specks of sapphire glass.

The outfit is starch-stiff, careful tailoring not yet broken in. Apart from the cloak she purchased in Zadash it’s been a very long time since she’s had new clothes of her own; her vestments were passed down from an older initiate and she’d never seen the point in replacing them. They were functional, which is all that mattered. Still, when the shopgirl compliments her on the fit she preens, just a little.

Beau is dressed in her father’s image, but the fabric is finer than anything his sizable closet held. Perhaps if he’d been the mayor of Kamordah and not just an affluent merchant, he’d have worn something like this.

But it wouldn’t have been in blue. That’s a colour she’s earned, something all her own.

If her journey is taking her into the dragon’s lair, then she has to look the part. Nobody listens to the girl littered with dirt and bruises, that much she knows. _Everyone_ listens to the ones with fancy duds. People are predisposed to like beautiful things, and she has never been one of them. It never stops pissing her off that it matters so much. But as Beau steps out of the shop, the people in the street part for her like water around a rock, and she can’t deny that she’s a little more confident than she was before.

This outfit cost her a third of the gold that came bundled in a lavender-stained envelope, just in the nick of time. The rest went to fetching the precious documents she now holds in a folio at her side, in place of her empty coin purse.

She’s spent every last copper she had, and what Marion sent besides. There’s nothing left after today.

So today _has_ to be the end of it.

\---

The supervisor does a double take as Beau steps into the atrium in her new regalia. Beau passes her by without a glance, headed straight for the heavy set of doors at the back, where a man is tapping his foot with one hand resting on the gilt handle. He looks her up and down as she approaches, eventually landing on the cobalt blue sash slung like a bandolier from one shoulder to her waist: the only part of her original outfit still on display. The rest is nestled in a bundle beneath her bed at the inn, wrapped in Jester’s cloak.

“Ms. Lionett?”

“That’s me.”

“Right this way.” He opens the heavy door and holds it for her as she steps through.

The door leads to a labyrinth of hallways equally as bewildering as the layout of the Academy, though without the splitting headache Beau finds it much easier to keep track of her direction as they walk. She’s guided to a small anteroom, where she and her escort sit across from each other on uncomfortable couches and trade awkward pleasantries until a second man arrives and dismisses the first. It’s the same official who bore Zeenoth’s letter. His bushy black beard twitches into a smile as he finally introduces himself properly: Carlson, apparently. It’s about as pedestrian as names get. 

“How do you feel this morning, Ms. Lionett?”

“Ready to get this over with.”

“And have you been given adequate time to prepare your case?”

 _You could have given me a year and I still wouldn’t be ready for this_.

“Yup,” she says, grimacing.

“Alright. We’ve still got a bit before the trial starts, so let me walk you through the process one more time.”

He explains the proceedings to her in basic terms, pretty much the same rote spiel as what he’d presented to her a week ago. As the plaintiff she’ll go first. Carlson will act as her liaison should she need to ask questions of the court, fetch witnesses, or request a delay. There are no rebuttals, and no closing statements. The two sides make their cases, and the judicial council - headed by an ordained mediator - decides on the verdict. Simple, to the point justice. At least, that’s how Carlson frames it, with a note of pride in how supposedly efficient it all ends up being. ‘Efficient justice’ strikes her as something of an oxymoron.

“Things will get started in,” he checks his timepiece, “about twenty minutes. Let’s head into the courtroom now so you can get settled.”

He leads her from the antechamber into a much larger room, and it’s pretty close to what she expected, but on a much grander scale. She’s not a short woman, but she still feels small beneath the stories-tall ceiling, with its vaulted paneling and enormous chandelier fixed in the center, beads strung across the roof in a canopy of glittering glass. Galleries ring the courtroom to the right and the left, fencing in a lower floor where two gated boxes make a perfect matching pair. Each is fitted with a wooden table and bench, with enough space for extra chairs if needed. The boxes face a long gallery and table, higher than all the rest, set with five ornate chairs in a meticulously-spaced row.

Only a few of the seats to the sides are occupied, and only in the highest levels, which leaves the courtroom floor functionally private. Beau takes advantage of that to whisper a question to Carlson as she surveys the empty seats.

“It’s a restricted proceeding. Hope you weren’t expecting a big audience,” he clarifies, and leads her to the left-hand box. She’s not sure if she’s disappointed or relieved. On one hand, taking Ikithon to task in front of a packed crowd of onlookers is something out of a wet dream. On the other, this is going to be stressful enough without the whole of Rexxentrum watching her every move.

Beau shuffles her pages anxiously as they wait, first placing them in one pile, then spreading the stack out across the table. The letters start to swim before her eyes, though she’s already committed most to memory, and she presses her palms to her forehead and soldiers on. This is one scenario where it probably doesn’t pay to cram, but old habits die hard.

“Your opposition has arrived,” Carlton mutters in her ear. She spins in her seat as gracefully as the stiff clothes allow, careful not to disturb the pristine line of her coat.

Ikithon, as imposing in height and aura as ever, paces down the aisle towards the rightmost box. Behind him walks a man Beau doesn’t recognize. Ikithon looks to her with a polite smile and she stands and steps out of her box to greet him. (If she abruptly blocks his path and forces him back on one heel to avoid a collision, well, it’s just a happy coincidence).

“We meet again, Beauregard.” He extends his hand. She takes it and shakes it firmly, not a hint of give in her grip. He doesn’t flinch, but a knuckle pops audibly as she squeezes down on his fingers. “A pleasure, as always,” he remarks. Yup. Sure sounds like he’s pleased to see her.

“Right.” She can’t quite bring herself to repeat the pleasantry, but she doesn’t spit in his face, which requires a force of willpower she didn’t know she possessed. It won’t hold if she’s forced to keep looking at his ugly, lying face so Beau turns to his companion, who up till this point had been studying the floor like it held all the universe’s secrets. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced-”

The man looks up, and Beau’s heart peters to a stop as Caleb’s unmistakable eyes meet hers.

It’s been less than two weeks since they parted, and in that time Caleb has changed to the point of unrecognizability. Short hair, clean-shaven, not a speck of mud on his expensive robes of cambric and velvet: all surface attributes, all things she can accept. But it’s the way he carries himself that alters his appearance so greatly. Now that his eyes are off the floor, he tilts his chin with the haughtiness of a duke, a regality both of posture and expression that pings all sorts of alarm bells in Beau’s head.

Side by side, the way Caleb and Ikithon stand is almost identical.

“Beauregard,” he says crisply, and gives her a short bow. Though they’re nearly the same height she feels every millimetre of the difference when he straightens. She adjusts her own posture to match.

“ _Caleb_ ,” she replies, and though she tries to maintain her decorum a bit of relief creeps into her voice, because it is _so good_ to see him. Another few weeks alone and she might have convinced herself the Mighty Nein were a fever dream, dreamt up out of loneliness. Now she’s here, with the living proof that at least one of the group is still around, and seemingly ok, or as ok as anybody could be with Ikithon holding their leash. That new piece of information emboldens her, and though she’s sure Ikithon took Caleb along purely for the purpose of fucking with her head, she can’t help but grin. If he thought it would weaken Beau to see Caleb by his side, Ikithon doesn’t know her at all. She has never been more determined in her life to utterly destroy another human being.

And if Ikithon thought he needed mind games and dirty tricks to win this thing? Well, she must have more of a leg to stand on than she thought.

“You must be confused,” Ikithon says, words oozing like oil from his lips. “This man’s name is Bren. You don’t seem to know the people you supposedly hired, Beauregard.”

Caleb doesn’t react to the mismatched name, so Beau doesn’t either. If Ikithon wants to call him that, _fine_. They both know who he really is, and it’s not the boy who Ikithon manipulated all those years ago. She’s watched Caleb grow into himself over their months together; she’s seen how much he’s changed. He came with them all the way to Rexxentrum when he could have easily ditched them in Felderwin. He stayed because he cared so deeply for Nott, and because he wanted to be with the group, whether or not he’d admit it.

He’s _Caleb_ , the same Caleb who held tight to her shoulder while he found the strength to admit to another name. And no lie Ikithon insists upon can change that.

“I know what I said,” Beau says primly, not even glancing at Ikithon. “ _Caleb_. Glad to see you’re alright.”

Caleb’s eyes dart to Ikithon momentarily before he answers. “You as well, Beauregard.” She searches his tone for a hint towards what he’s thinking, but there’s nothing to latch onto. His voice is blank as chalk.

“Shall we find our seats?” Ikithon says, all but gliding his way between the two of them, and Caleb steps back, allowing him room.

“Find me after,” she mouths as Ikithon leads Caleb towards the right-hand box. _However this goes down, find me. No matter what happens, I’m not going to let him have you that easy._ Caleb doesn’t reply, but he jerks his head in acknowledgement before settling down into his seat. Ikithon sits beside him, blocking most of Caleb from Beau’s view as she retakes her own spot. If she cranes her neck, she can just catch a few auburn waves peeking out from the front of Ikithon’s robes.

Carlson leans in and whispers, “Friend of yours?”

She points down to the top sheet in her list of documents, the only one provided by the court itself. Near the bottom is a list of names. “Part of the settlement,” she explains. Carlson’s gaze flickers over to the opposite box.

“Oh,” he says. “Interesting.” _Bad_ , his tone implies.

Yeah, Beau knows it looks bad. But she also knows Caleb. He would have never willingly gone along with Ikithon, no matter what outward appearances suggest. His hatred of the man is one thing she’s never had any cause to question.

They’ve just retaken their seats when the council begins to filter all. All human, none younger than fifty by her estimation. The woman who moves to the center seat must be the mediator - while every member of the council is dressed smartly, she bears an ostentatious broach on her lapel that from this distance Beau can only barely make out as the Dwendalian crest. Most of the council are occupied by finding their seats and chatting, but one or two members glance down at the boxes, and Beau flushes under their scrutiny. The staging reeks of the tribunal that accompanied her first set of Cobalt Soul practicals, when she was seventeen and arrogant and angry and just a little too scared of failing not to self-sabotage. All those eyes looking down over her, ready to pick apart her every flaw, to remind her how little she knew-

Beau takes a deep breath.

She held her ground against the Plank King of Darktow’s judgement and came out with her head still on her shoulders. Do a group of decrepit bureaucrats really scare her more than that?

What is she frightened of, really? That they won’t respect her? That they’ll call her a liar, and that without the rest of the Nein at her back, bolstering her words, that the whole world will agree it must be true? After all, she’s never been anything else.

But the thing is, she has no intention of lying. At least, not in a way that matters. Honesty is her best defence, her only hope. She’s a monk of the Cobalt Soul, and Ioun lights the steps of those who walk the path of truth, and she thinks maybe it was more her own power that brought her here than Ioun’s but she _is here_. She is in this room, wearing her colours proudly as she stands before the Crown’s elite. She is permitted to be here, occupying this space.

She is, impossibly, _enough_.

“Supplicants of the court, rise.”

Beau stands, as does Ikithon. The sound of creaking wood fades to breathless silence as all eyes turn to the center seat.

“I stand as the mediator of King Dwendal, acting in his name and dispensing his justice. Speak plainly, or not at all, and with the aid of this council I will judge your words and your evidence.” The mediator is the oldest of the council, hair long-greyed and wispy against creased skin, but despite her age her voice doesn’t warble or break. “Beauregard Lionett,” she calls. Beau steps to the edge of the box, her pulse eerily calm within her chest. “You speak for the Cobalt Soul, on the authority of the Archive.”

“I do,” Beau says, bowing before returning her gaze to the mediator. The eye contact at one time would have cowed her, but she meets her halfway, confident and unflinching.

“You are young, to be entrusted with such a role.”

She looks to Beau and pauses, waiting for an explanation. Beau thinks of her letter to Dairon, long arrived to Bladegarden by this point and never returned. In a desperate scrawl she’d begged her to come to Rexxentrum, to help Beau, to _save_ her, and she’s spent days wondering if the lack of response meant Dairon never cared about her at all.

Maybe it just meant Dairon trusted her enough to let her do this on her own.

“I was the best person for the job.” She utters the statement without arrogance, without pretence, without the bite of sarcasm she’d usually use to shield herself. This isn’t the right place or time for ego. This is all of her friends’ lives, hung by a thread, and her holding the end with an unwavering grip.

The mediator nods, then turns to the right-hand box. “Archmage Trent Ikithon, you speak for the Cerberus Assembly.” His bow is deeper than Beau’s, more practiced but no more sincere. “It’s been a while since you’ve graced our courts.”

“There are many things that occupy my days, Mediator Tollenheart.” Perfect. He’s been here before, and he knows the mediator’s name. It’s not that she didn’t expect Ikithon to have more experience in this area than her, but the confirmation isn’t comforting. “I only hope we can resolve this matter swiftly, so I can return to more pressing matters.”

_That’s right, asshole. Remind everyone how this is totally beneath you. You’re only making my job easier._

The mediator doesn’t ask for Caleb’s name, but her eyes linger on his still-seated figure for a long moment before she speaks again. Caleb doesn’t meet her gaze. “You may be seated, Master Ikithon.”

Which leaves only Beau standing, holding herself back from gripping the edge of the wooden box. The coat’s long sleeves are a mercy for hiding tensed wrists.

“Ms. Lionett. When you are ready, present your case.”

Beau squares her shoulders and steps around the desk. “Thank you, Mediator Tollenheart.” She takes another breath, and the words are there. She’s practiced. She’s ready.

She’s ready.

***

Like the sting of a needle through skin, anticipated only in the final moment before the pain, Caleb hadn’t fully grasped what this trial would be until he was actually seated in the courtroom, watching Beau with dawning understanding as she strides forward. She’s dressed all in blue, the perfect simulacrum of high society. The uncharacteristic care she’s put into her appearance is evident in every line and pleat. Every inch of her is what it needs to be.

That she is here is a miracle in itself. He’s spent so much effort putting her (putting _all_ of them) out of his mind, that he hadn’t given any thought to what she must be doing in their absence. Hadn’t even been sure if she was still in the Academy or not. Hadn’t realized, until this very moment, that there was a hope outside himself for escape.

But here they are, in this courtroom, and Beau is striding up to face the table of the Empire’s highest lawmakers with a stack of papers in her hands, and a dangerous feeling, one he doesn’t dare name, is swelling in his chest.

This cannot possibly be the answer. It cannot be this simple.

And yet...

“First, I’d like to clear up a few things. I’m not going to argue about whether Trent Ikithon had the right to bring a group of innocent travellers into the Soltryce Academy under magical duress. Due to extenuating circumstances, the Cobalt Soul acknowledges this action as a… service, I guess you could call it. I am _also_ not here to complain about the violence done to myself or my companions during that process, or even to contest whether Headmistress Tross’s decision to induct my companions into the Academy was within her right.” _I could, but I won’t._ Tollenheart maintains her hawk-like attention on Beau, but the other members of the council turn to each other, buzzing with interest at Beau’s strange concessions.

“My main goal is to establish the continuing relationship between the group known as the Mighty Nein and the Cobalt Soul, and to demonstrate that this relationship has been a great benefit to the Empire as a whole.” Beau pauses. _She’s taking her time_ , Caleb realizes. She’s being careful. This is the most important part of her argument, and she’s making sure the phrasing is absolutely correct. “I’ll also establish that at least one member of the Mighty Nein is exempt from the Rite of Conscription, which makes her detainment unlawful. Finally... there’s one last thing I’d like to address. One final member of our party, a woman named Yasha, was present on the night in question, despite what the Academy’s records show. Her name has mysteriously disappeared from the documentation - a simple oversight, I’m sure - but the Soul won’t be satisfied unless she’s released as well.”

“And if we find your arguments sufficient, what is it that you’d like this court to provide to you, Ms. Lionett?”

“Exactly what I requested a week ago. I’d _respectfully_ petition the court that all those individuals listed in my initial claim be released into my custody at once. Including Yasha. I’m not asking for compensation for their time, or for the inconvenience this whole mess has caused. I only ask for what was rightfully ours to begin with: freedom to do what is right for the Empire, on our own terms.”

She’s laid out her argument succinctly: an argument in three parts.

_We’re an established group, associated with the Cobalt Soul and doing good work for the sake of the Empire._

_Not all of our number are subject to the Empire’s martial laws._

_Yasha was one of us, no matter what the documentation states._

Now, to prove it.

Beau sets to work, and Caleb can’t help but be transfixed. She dances between her box and the line of the officials on their high seat, handing over page after page in sequence. First, a letter scripted on plain country stock - a missive from Bryce Feelid and Starosta Kosh of Alfield, certifying the Mighty Nein’s aid with their gnoll invasion, and that the endeavour saved the lives of many Crownsguard. Next, a missive on heavier, creamy cardstock - this one from Lawmaster Orentha Stonegrasp of Zadash, informing the court that the Mighty Nein had solved a problem within the sewers of the city that the Crownsguard had been unable to quell, and that they had even been offered employment under the Crown for their excellent service.

The council passes the letters back and forth down the line. A scribe is called to fetch sample seals to verify the integrity of the documents and at last, the man at the end of the row looks up from his magnifying glass.

“Genuine,” he declares, and Beau’s smile is wide and triumphant. Caleb imagines she would have been pumping her fist under any other circumstance. Her stack of papers is not yet even half empty. As for himself, he is more cautious, but the dangerous feeling grows as he’s swept up in the momentum of her minor victory.

This is not the approach he would have tried if he were in her spot, but it is so quintessentially _Beau_ that his spirit rises in admiration. He still remembers the events she’s citing, of course, but she pulls her evidence from names he did not bother committing to memory, locked away with the rest of the details he’d ultimately deemed unimportant from their early travels. Caleb may recall the circumstances, the battles and the places and the items won and lost, but Beau remembers the _people_.

The last piece of evidence for her first argument is a letter from Ophelia Mardun, and Caleb doesn’t want to know what she promised that woman in exchange for her support, but they can work out future debts along the line, when all of this is done. He trusts Beau to have traded exactly what was necessary.

“The Mardun family, of Shadycreek Run?” Tollenheart asks as she peruses the letter, then looks down over the bridge of her long nose. “That’s outside the Empire, isn’t it?”

“We dispatched a group of slavers there known as the Iron Shepherds, who were waylaying travellers from the Empire. Surely we don’t only care about protecting our citizens while they’re inside the border?”

Tollenheart _hmm_ s at that, mulling the words over. Finally, she places the letter with the other two, and Beau’s shoulders drop half an inch. She rolls them out as she strides back to the desk and grabs the next stack of papers, circling like a lion on the prowl. With her back to the council, her small exhale of relief is only visible to him and, probably, Ikithon.

“As for my second point-” Beau starts with renewed vigour as she steps back out onto the floor.

“Ms. Lionett,” Tollenheart interrupts. “Before we move on… you still have not mentioned the Cobalt Soul’s involvement in all this.”

Ikithon shifts at Caleb’s side, and when he glances left out of the corner of his eye, the man has his arms crossed over his chest, eyes twinkling with satisfaction as he looks at Tollenheart. The mediator, for her part, only has eyes for Beau, who freezes momentarily before slinking back into her easy saunter. The sleek fabric of her frock coat rustles as she dips into another polite bow.

“Apologies, Mediator. Some more _sensitive_ information I’m not at liberty to share in a public forum. It’s a matter of security, I’m sure you can understand. I obviously can’t provide the exact details of what we do for the Soul, any more than Archmage Ikithon here could tell the court exactly what the Cerberus Assembly has been up to in the last few years.” Beau glances back at Ikithon, and her smirk is playful and only meant for his benefit. Ikithon does not attempt to pretest the point because, of course, Beau is correct. Nobody in their right mind would divulge key political secrets or motivations in an open setting like this, where every word is being carefully scribed for the public record. “You’ve already received proof of my status with the Cobalt Soul, and my authority to speak on their behalf. The best I can do is assure you that none of what we have done is without the Cobalt Soul’s intent. If my word on that matter isn’t enough, then I’m not sure what we’re doing here.”

“No,” Tollenheart muses after a weighty pause. “I suppose you couldn’t share that.” She doesn’t sound entirely satisfied, but she doesn’t press the issue. “Continue, then.”

Beau’s next offering comes in the form of a bundle of delicate pink pages. A faint scent of lavender drifts from her hands as she breezes between the boxes.

“You’ll find here the handwriting of Marion Lavorre, but I think some might know her better by her other name: the Ruby of the Sea.” A smattering of titters and mildly offended gasps ripple through the courtroom, and Beau smiles in a way that might be considered _lascivious_. “Obviously, she’s still pretty well known even this far into the Empire. For those who aren’t acquainted, she’s a famous courtesan, who hails from _Nicodranas_. If you need more proof of that, you can ask Starosta Kosh: he’ll be happy to tell you that her services can only be obtained on the Menagerie Coast.” Another chorus of little murmurings, and Caleb hears the threat behind Beau’s offhand outing of the Starosta. He has no doubt that in this room full of high-ranking government officials, there are at least a few who have paid a visit to brothels far from their homes and, more importantly, their spouses. _Test me_ , she is saying, _and maybe I’ll ask the Ruby who else has shared her bed_. “Her daughter, Jester? One of the requisitioned members listed on your sheet. As a visitor to the Empire, the Cerberus Assembly had no right to conscript her.”

This is one piece of Beau’s case that Ikithon will have a hard time disputing. The Empire keeps meticulous records of birth, and even searching far and wide, they will not discover Jester’s within its borders. If another country lays claim to her, there is little the Assembly can do to prove otherwise, barring a suspiciously convenient forgery.

Beau does not try to argue for Fjord’s citizenship under the same umbrella, he notices. Maybe she couldn’t get anything on him in time, or more likely orphans are as countryless in the Menagerie Coast as they are in the Empire: belonging to nothing and nobody, no record of their existence. Considering how hard Fjord has worked to obscure what parts of his past could possibly be traced, he doubts there’s much of anything to find. But if there is anyone that Caleb would not see ruined within the Assembly’s grasp, it’s Jester, and even if all Beau manages to win today is her freedom, he will count them all blessed.

Caleb turns his gaze back to the council, eager to know how Beau’s argument has landed with the mediator. The tentative emotion that had been stirring as each of Beau’s pages was taken and verified begins to unfurl, blooming into something wild and untameable: hope. Hope in things he did not dream were possible the day before. It’s going well, and maybe-

Tollenheart is looking right at him.

Caleb quickly drops his eyes to the desk, heart suddenly and violently hammering. When he lifts them again, she’s already turned her attention back to Beau, but her piercing gaze lingers like a phantom wound in his chest.

It was only a moment, but he could have sworn… he almost thought…

Beau begins to speak on the subject of Yasha, and Caleb wills his pulse to calm, forces himself to pay attention to Beau’s next argument.

Records from the Victory Pit in Zadash are produced and handed over-

_Tollenheart’s eyes, they seemed-_

Proof that a Xhorhasian woman named Yasha was registered under the Mighty Nein’s name-

 _She was studying him, pouring over his features, as though he was something familiar. As though she thought she_ knew _him._

“Archmage Ikithon, you yourself-”

 _Does he know_ her _?_

“-met in Zadash, or don’t you recall? Your name is on the records too. You were a _guest of honor_.” Ikithon stands, and Caleb stares at Tollenheart, trying desperately to understand.

_He would have remembered meeting a woman like this in the last few months, surely? So then-_

“Would you describe the woman who was with me?”

Ikithon reluctantly describes Yasha in vague terms – broad, hulking, heavy emphasis on the Xhorhasian elements of her heritage - then addresses Tollenheart. “This event was half a year past. I fail to see what relevance it has on current proceedings.”

“Make your point, Ms. Lionett,” Tollenheart reminds Beau.

_It would have had to have been when he was younger, but then she would have been younger too, and Tollenheart is around Ikithon’s age. Her skin is craggled and her voice rougher, deeper than that of a younger woman, and he doesn’t remember..._

He doesn’t recognize her, Caleb concludes, but she seemed to know him, and the unease curdles in his stomach, drowning his fleeting hope in sour dread.

Beau gestures to her lawyer, who exit through the back door and comes back dragging a person Caleb does know. The keeper of the Lion’s Rest Inn frets as though he’d rather be anywhere else, but cowers under Beau’s fierce glare as she asks him to describe the group that rented his rooms two weeks ago. He does, and thankfully Ikithon’s greater bulk blocks Caleb from the man’s sight as he rattles off the descriptions of all seven members of the Mighty Nein, including himself, and including one larger woman who fits Ikithon’s description of Yasha to a T.

Yasha was with them, here in Rexxentrum, on the night it all happened. She was here, and Ikithon admitted to knowing her face. That in itself is not damning evidence, but it limits the lies Ikithon can draw from when it comes time for his turn. But Caleb cannot focus on that, not while Tollenheart might look back to him at any second. He needs to know what response he’s meant to give.

The council members trade the Victory Pit’s records around the table after Beau finishes her little demonstration. Tollenheart slips a pair of spectacles from her breast pocket and places them on the bridge of her nose as she studies the fine print.

Yellow lenses.

Something clicks in Caleb’s memory: a cog shifting into place, connecting the first of many rusted gears that begin to slowly churn. Another face flashes over Tollenheart’s: someone younger, hair black-not-grey, mouth thin and not yet set between wrinkles.

_(Bren is sixteen, and her name is Evaline, but that is not relevant to the task at hand._

_A pretty name, but unremarkable, just like the woman. Dark-haired, middle-aged, well-dressed. Her glasses are tinted with amber - a remedy for an eye condition, perhaps. That too is irrelevant._

_He slips through the crowd of party-goers till he’s at her side, and asks for a name he already knows. She gives it easily, charmed by his precociousness: a woman in her station, to be approached by someone so young, and with such_ excellent _manners. They are always charmed, and he is very good at pretending by now. He’s had a great deal of practice._

_Bren asks for her advice, and then her confidence, and she tells him more than she should because he is a boy with earnest, hungry eyes and those in power like to gather that kind of boy under their wing. His adoration is his siren song, and she drinks him up like fine wine, and leaves pearls at the bottom of his glass._

_He never asks Ikithon what he does with the information he gathers during these parties, and Bren forgets all their faces soon enough. The people are secondary, unimportant. The results are all that matter.)_

A wave of nausea rolls through Caleb as the memory resurfaces. It’s all he can do not to double over.

A court official on the rise. Yes, that’s the sort of person Ikithon would want to have in his pocket. Best bring her to heel before she could finish the climb, while she still had so much to lose.

The courtroom shifts in colour, what was once bright and glittering becoming muted and dull, and he finally sees all of this for what it is: a sham. This whole trial is a sham. Would Ikithon, the Archmage of _Influence_ , truly walk into a courtroom where he was not assured victory? Where he didn’t know for a fact that the verdict would fall in his favour? Caleb has no doubt that Ikithon had a direct hand in what mediator was chosen for today. It would be so easy to do, for a man in his position.

It doesn’t matter what Beau says, what evidence she provides, how sound her argument is: Tollenheart has already made her decision. She made it decades ago, when she shared too much of herself with the wrong person.

Caleb had thought Ikithon took him along to intimidate Beau. Now he wonders if she’s the only one in the courtroom his presence was meant as a warning to.

Someone is murmuring in his ear, a heavy hand resting on his shoulder, and he comes back to himself in slow blinks and tremors. Beau is back in her box, seated and leaning back with her hands behind her head, hard-won pride written across every inch of her face.

 _She tried so hard,_ he thinks. _She did so_ well _, and it doesn’t matter at all._

“Bren. I would ask something of you, but not unless you are willing.”

Ikithon’s hand traces small circles between his shoulders, like Caduceus sometimes does when Caleb is overwhelmed, and he thinks he really will throw up this time.

There is no escaping this. There is no part of Rexxentrum where the Cerberus Assembly’s influence isn’t felt. There is no neutrality to be found within the city walls. There is only power, and all the invisible webs it weaves across the fabric of the world.

“Would you speak on my behalf? Would you tell the court the truth of the matter? I know what I ask is outside your area of comfort, and I will not force you to speak if you would rather continue to observe. But I believe it is in you to do this. I believe you are strong enough.”

An incredulous laugh bubbles up in Caleb’s throat. _Tell the truth?_ The truth doesn’t matter. Ikithon doesn’t need Caleb’s testimony, the verdict has already been decided. This is nothing more than a victory lap, a middle finger to Beau for daring to step into Ikithon’s arena.

Or...

...no, this is a _test_.

Choices are not choices when both outcomes are the same. Choices are a measuring rod, and Caleb will have shown Ikithon exactly the length his trust should extend if he refuses. Trust is all he has, trust is the knife’s edge that his precarious, half-formed exit strategy is balanced upon. Ikithon _must_ trust him.

This choice is not a choice, but he chooses all the same.

“ _Ja_ ,” he whispers. “I will speak for you.”

Ikithon sits back, his hand pausing between Caleb’s shoulderblades. _He is surprised_ , Caleb thinks. _He did not think I would._

_And that is exactly why I have to._

“Archmage Ikithon, the floor is yours. Please present what you have to the court.”

Ikithon gestures to him and Caleb rises on unsteady legs. The distance to the edge of the box is two feet at most, but it takes two years to arrive, and by the time he makes his way to the center of the open space he has aged twenty under Tollenheart’s stare. He glances at Beau as he passes, and her expression holds none of her prior triumph. Now it only reveals confusion, and the beginning signs of worry.

Caleb’s chest squeezes painfully as he pictures the minutes to come through her eyes, how it all will look.

_She will never forgive me._

_She will think I am the reason she’s lost, and she will never forgive me._

“Who is this?” asks Tollenheart. She’s forgotten to remove the yellow lenses. He wishes he had glasses to hide behind.

“My name is Bren Aldric Ermendrud.” A rapid shuffling of papers, and every member of the council now turns to the inventory listed on Beau’s plea, searching for confirmation of the familiar name. A few look between the list and Caleb with shock or surprise. Tollenheart is unmoved. “I am one of the group known as the Mighty Nein, though some of your documents may name me as Caleb. I was there the night we were attacked; no, the night we were _rescued_ by Master Ikithon, and his companion.” At his back, the sound of a bench scraping back, of hands coming down hard on wood. “Since then, I have been a guest of the Soltryce Academy, the same place where I studied in my youth.” His nails bite into his palms, hidden beneath flowing sleeves of black and green. “I cannot speak for all of my compatriots, but I have chosen to remain willingly. We are not prisoners, as Ms. Beauregard supposes. We are the recipients of hospitality, and I am… grateful for the resources and instruction I have received. That is why I am here today, speaking on Master Ikithon’s behalf.”

There. Is that sufficient? Any more would turn into simpering, insincere flattery, and he does not think that would be well received. Finally, he nods again and turns back to his seat. “Mr. Ermendrud,” Tollenheart calls out. He pauses midstep. “Thank you for your testimony. Before you go, I _am_ curious… why do you think Ms. Lionett’s view of the situation is so different from your own?”

He doesn’t want to look at Beau, doesn’t want to see the betrayal in her eyes. He wants to be back in Ikithon’s office, scribbling down spells and alone, where he can pretend the things he does only matter within his little world of rooms. But he has to look at her, has to _try_ to make her understand, though she never hears him even when his words are plain, and he does not think she will now.

Beau is standing, her coat rumpled as she leans out over her table as far as the space allows, like she’s thinking about vaulting the edge of the box and running to him, and her expression is _furious_. He chokes under the weight of the anger he knows he deserves - if not for this, then all the lies he has spoken in the past that have led them here.

“She has never understood me as well as she thinks.”

“...Thank you, Mr. Ermendrud. That will be all.”

Caleb tears his eyes away from Beau’s burning gaze and returns to his seat.

“Well done, Bren,” Ikithon whispers, and lays a hand back on his shoulder, and Caleb leans into the touch because the alternative is floating away again. Ikithon’s smile is warm and pleased and _proud_ , and it hurts less to look at him than Beau’s fury, and anyway…

Ikithon stands to deliver the rest of his defence, and when his hand leaves Caleb’s shoulder, Caleb covers the spot with his own hand and squeezes until the skin goes numb.

He wonders if there will be a new scar there tomorrow.

***

Beau barely pays attention to Ikithon’s testimony. It’s peppered with lies that she cannot dispute, accounts from teachers she’s never met, promises of future benefits and necessary sacrifices and _the Cobalt Soul is not entitled_ and she cannot hear a word of it through the blood pounding in her ears, the all-consuming _hate_ that she’s drowning in.

That bastard.

That absolute _fucking_ bastard.

It’s not enough that he’s stolen her friends, that he’s given them over to who knows what, but he’s made Caleb complicit in it too. He’s got him so twisted around that he’ll pull his friends into the fire with him as he burns.

She doesn’t believe his words, can’t believe them, _refuses_ to accept that being locked up in the Academy is what Caleb wants.

(But isn’t that what Caleb has been telling her all along? _Don’t trust me, I’m a horrible person. Don’t trust me, I’m a liar worse than you. Don’t trust me, I have done bad things and I will do more, if given the chance._ )

The council takes a recess to deliberate, and Carlson tries to grab her and pull her back down into her seat but she’s far too quick for him to snatch. Beau’s across the room in three steps.

“We need to talk,” she hisses, pressed over the railing of the right-hand box. Caleb looks somewhere past her shoulder.

“You two can talk after the trial is done,” Ikithon says, like he’s in charge of them, like he’s the adult and they’re two unruly children put under his care, and she hates him, she _hates him_ , she will _kill him with her bare hands._

“What, he’s not allowed to speak now without your permission? Worried if he doesn’t have a script, he might just slip up and admit what a fucking piece of-”

“Beauregard _. Enough_.” Caleb’s hand is on her wrist, which she discovers is primed behind her back halfway into a swing, and she wasn’t going to hit Ikithon, but maybe she was, and maybe she would have still, but the sound of a bell signals the return of the council. She lets her hand drop, if only for the sake of any dwindling chance at victory she has left.

Tollenheart’s voice rings out over the courtroom. “Ms. Lionett, I see you’re already standing. If you could as well, Archmage Ikithon, I’ll pronounce the verdict.”

Beau reluctantly tears herself away from Caleb and moves to a space between the two boxes as Mediator Tollenheart speaks.

“My judgement is as follows. Taking into account Mr. Ermendrud’s testimony, there is insufficient evidence to prove that those members of the Mighty Nein who remain in the Academy are there unwillingly, or that the Rite of Conscription should be overridden for their particular case.” Beau’s stomach plummets. “Ms. Lionett, this council does concede that Jester Lavorre should not be subject to the Rite. As per my last conversation with Headmistress Tross, I understand that the young lady in question has already been dispatched to Bladegarden. This court will provide you a letter of exemption, that you may deliver to her at your leisure.” _Bladegarden? What?_ What the hell would Jester be doing in Bladegarden? And if she’d gone willingly, why wouldn’t she message Beau to tell her once she was out from under the Academy’s supervision? That can’t be right, it has to be a lie.

“As for the matter of this Yasha woman... without any record of her entering the Academy, I must trust Archmage Ikithon’s assurances that she was not present. But Ms. Lionett, I would remind you that even if she was, her Xhorhasian heritage would leave her a prisoner of war at best. Perhaps you should be grateful she was _not_ found.”

Grateful. She’s meant to be grateful for this, for ending up with nothing but a useless letter to free a girl who might or might not be headed for a city hundreds of miles away. And isn’t that oh, so convenient? Let’s send Beau on an errand to fetch Jester in Bladegarden and by the time she returns empty-handed, they have all the time they need to do whatever they want with the real Jester.

Fuck.

“I call this matter concluded, and justice done.”

 _Fuck_.

Ikithon thanks Mediator Tollenheart for her time, and Beau thinks she must do the same because the council exits, and then the rest of the courtroom clears out, and Ikithon and Caleb are walking away and back through the door and they are disappearing, everyone is disappearing again. Beau takes off into a dash, catching Caleb’s shoulder and spinning him around and slamming him into the wall.

“That bastard hasn’t won yet,” she hisses. “You hear me? It’s not over.”

“It is. It _is_ over, Beau,” he says, and for a moment she glimpses Caleb beneath the mask of Bren, the real Caleb: wide-eyed and vulnerable and reaching out, always reaching out. “You will get yourself hurt if you do not stop. So, _stop_.” His eyes flicker over her shoulder, and then go icy and clear. “Get off me,” he barks, voice laden with disgust, and shoves her back, straightening his robes as he pushes himself off the wall.

“My condolences on the loss,” Ikithon purrs just behind her ear. “Perhaps next time.” She whirls, ready with a one-two punch but he’s already moved out of range. Caleb shoulders past her and follows him out the door and down the corridor, and she’s alone again.

\---

The atrium is dark by the time she exits into the main hall, no clerks or supervisors in sight. The guards let her out into the burgeoning twilight through doors already locked for the evening. In her hands she holds the folio of evidence now returned to her, along with Jester’s letter of exemption.

She’ll go back to the inn. She’ll collect her things before the innkeeper has the chance to burn them in a fit of pique and she’ll find another place to sleep and…

And…

And what? She has no money for another room.

She has no plan.

She has nowhere to go.

Beau wanders through the streets in a shell-shocked haze, playing over the trial in her head: where it all went wrong, what her mistakes were, where she could have rescued the situation if she’d just _done better_. But there aren’t any answers to be found. It just... wasn’t enough.

Maybe she’ll steal a purse or two, make for Bladegarden in the morning. See if Jester is actually there, or find Dairon. Ask for a new assignment, since clearly rooting out corruption isn’t her calling after all.

She’s done with this city.

She’s just _done_.

Beau looks up to find her oblivious steps have brought her to the amphitheatre, its silent walls as vacant as her heart.

 _You couldn’t have warned me, oh All Knowing One? Couldn’t have told me that I was on the wrong path?_ She kicks a pebble at the wall. It pings uselessly against the stone. _Guess it was stupid to even ask. Like you’d care about me or my shitty problems. Like anyone ever cares._

A faint echo of movement drifts out from the alley between buildings. Rats, maybe? Beau turns her head towards the disturbance, searching for the source of the noise.

She doesn’t get the chance to scream before a bag is thrown over her head, blotting out the light of the stars. Strong arms wrap around her middle and she kicks out with both feet, desperately trying to get leverage on her assailant. Whoever it is, they’re ready for the maneuver and twirls out of reach of Beau’s strike. Another set of arms pin her fists to her back, and then someone’s grabbing her legs, and she’s hoisted off the ground and carried away into the darkness.

Beau writhes in their grasp, yelling as loudly as the bag allows, but the assailant hold her tight and she has no idea where she is, no idea where she’s being taken, and her first and only thought is that this is Caleb was warning her about in his last moments before they split apart.

Ikithon’s decided to finally have her murdered, and he’s too much of a priss to do the job himself.

She’s thrown onto the ground in a heap, except it’s not ground or cobblestone. The surface shifts beneath her hands as she scrambles for purchase, a sea of tiny particles. Sand. Someone pulls the bag off her head and torchlight flares all around. She emerges already spitting curses, more than ready to clock the next person who touches her, but a shrill voice cuts through the racket.

“Beau!”

Beau’s head whips up in time to catch a blur of green before twig thin arms wrap around her neck in a stranglehold, sharp teeth biting into the skin of her collarbone.

“I didn’t believe it when they said they saw you, but I should have, I should-”

“ _Nott_?” she breathes, and Nott (it’s Nott, _Nott_ , Nott is _here_ ) presses her face deeper into Beau’s neck, and Beau throws her arms around her tiny frame and holds on for dear life.

“You all collapsed. I-I didn’t know if anyone was still alive,” Nott mumbles, too honest, too frightened, and Beau holds her even closer. _Nott, Nott-_ “I couldn’t find-”

“I’m ok,” she whispers frantically. “I’m alive. Caleb’s alive. The others, I think they’re fine too. I… I hope so. Where have _you_ been?”

“Oh,” Nott says, a little sheepishly as she pulls back. “Here.”

Beau finally manages to get a good look at where they are. Stone walls and a sandy floor and gridded moonlight falling in patches over Nott’s green hair from a skylight above.

They aren’t alone. Ringing the back of the room are a dozen or so figures in black armor, just barely visible in the shadows, and dangling from each of their belts are sets of keen silver blades. The figures watch silently from beneath black hoods and Beau’s hand instinctively goes to her belt, searching for the pack of throwing stars that aren’t there, they’re in the inn with the rest of her weapons, _goddamnit_.

Sewn Teeth.

They’re in a nest of Sewn Teeth.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Beau says.

Nott grabs her hand and holds it down, and as her cloak shifts Beau spots a pair of matching silver daggers hanging beside her crossbow.

“I can explain.”


	16. Nott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What _has_ our goblin friend been up to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the username change didn't confuse anyone when they got the notification email! I've been some variety of Wren online since the very first fic I published when I was like, 13, so this feels like coming home somehow :)
> 
> I posted a couple [concept sketches](https://mithrilwren.tumblr.com/post/187564939582/a-couple-concept-sketches-for-caleb-and) on my Tumblr for Beau and Caleb's outfits from the last chapter, by the way! I'm much more of a writer than an artist, and Beau's coat is far more intricate in my mind's eye than what I had the time or skill to draw, but check them out if you're curious! 
> 
> This chapter probably went through more re-writes than any other chapter in this fic - partially because the tone wasn't working, but mostly because Google Docs decided it would be fun to vanish a good third of my document into the ether >:( 
> 
> (I'll admit, my second attempt was better, but I'm still mad about it.)

“Now, Nott!”

There’s fire everywhere. 

Fire, and scattered blades, and Caleb’s order ringing in her ears- 

Not order,  _ plan _ . They made this plan together. Nott agreed to this. Reluctantly, but she agreed. If it came down to it, this was the plan they decided on,  _ together _ . It even made sense at the time. It was her responsibility to protect him, protect the group, and sometimes protecting someone means leaving them behind. She knows that, better than anyone.

Caleb doesn’t look right. He’s wavering, the lines of his body all fuzzy and blurred. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe he’s burning away before her eyes.

_ (Puff of Smoke. It’s funny,  _ ja _? The double meaning. _

_ No, not really. _

_ Well- Well. Ok. _

_ It’s fine, Caleb. We’ll workshop it on the way.) _

Jester is by Yasha, clutching her axe in one hand and her holy symbol in the other. The haversack dangles from her shoulder, loose and forgotten; it takes no strength at all to wrench it from her. Jester whirls and casts about for the missing bag, but Nott is already moving.

_ (The dodecahedron, Nott, we can’t let him take it. That kind of power in his hands… he would use it to do terrible things. We cannot let that happen. _

_ Ok, sure. We’ll start there- Caleb, are you alright?) _

Caleb’s eyes slide in her direction, but his body is still turned towards the wall of flames. It doesn’t really seem like he sees her. He pulls the amulet from his neck and tosses it in a high arc in her direction. She snatches it from the air. Holds her breath. Casts her last spell.

_ (I will give you this. It will help you stay hidden from prying eyes. _

_ I thought you needed it. _

_ You will need it more.) _

The alley is blocked off in both directions by retreating black-cloaked figures and bodies and fire. The roof is too high for her to leap, but Caduceus is standing against the wall and Nott clambers up his arm like a cat, invisible nails catching in armor plates and pink snarls as she boosts off his shoulder and up. The thatched rooftop isn’t sturdy enough to hold a human’s weight, but she’s small and light. The straw crackles beneath her knees but doesn’t break. She scrambles to the center beam, turning just in time to see a man step through the flames, unburnt. 

The little house trembles in the aftershock of six bodies slumping to the ground below, and Nott covers her mouth with her hands. 

_ (Get yourself away, as quick as you can. I’ll make sure you have cover. _

_ What about you? I wouldn’t just leave you. _

_ If Ikithon finds me, I don’t think it will make much difference, one way or the other.) _

None of the Nein are moving.

Nott watches the man in the robes - Ikithon, that was the name he gave her,  _ Ikithon _ \- step through the heap of bodies, heading straight for the base of the building where Caleb is collapsed (unconscious? dead?) against the baseboards. If she leaned out from her perch, she’d be close enough count the hairs on his balding head.

He doesn’t see her. He doesn’t know she’s there.

_ (Do not underestimate him. He is capable of more than you imagine. _

_ Yeah, sure, but-) _

She’s got a gun on her belt.

_ (Promise me, Nott. If it comes to it, don’t fight. Run. We are good at that,  _ ja _?) _

One bullet.

_ (You cannot protect me if you are dead.) _

Ikithon raises a hand towards Caleb’s body, and Nott bolts.

She takes the slats in the rooftops two at a time, darting across the narrow gaps between buildings with more haste than caution, and it’s only about a block and a half before her foot slips. She careens down onto the cobblestones below in a bruising clatter of bones and scattered coins. If anyone’s following close enough to hear the racket, she doesn’t wait around to find out. Nott pushes herself to her feet and keeps on running. 

Left, right, right, left, it doesn’t matter, she can’t take the time to keep track. She’s invisible to the Crownsguard with their torches so long as she stays in the shadows. She runs in whatever direction the torchlight is dimmest, and by the time she collapses in the corner of a dark alleyway, breathless and sore-footed, she’s unbearably lost. 

Felderwin had ten streets, if you counted the byway down by the river, and she had her whole life to memorize them. Then she had Caleb who - whether by map or by memory - always knew which way to go. She has no idea how she’ll get back, if there’s even anything to get back to. The stables and the Lion’s Rest Inn are the only places in the city she knows, and she can’t return to either one.

_ (Leave behind anything that could connect you to me. They might come searching for where we’ve been, so we will not let them find any clue that traces back to you. And if I raise my wall of fire quick enough, they may never see you at all. You will be gone without a trace, up in a puff of smoke.  _

_... _

_ Maybe that should be the name. Puff of Smoke. It’s funny,  _ ja _? The double meaning. _

_ No. It isn’t funny at all.) _

She could find another inn. There have to be more, this city is big enough to house dozens of them. But the porcelain mask is conspicuous, and so is a lone girl searching for shelter in the dead of night. 

It’s dark right now, but it won’t always be, and she has no spells left.

_ (So what happens after? Once I’m somewhere safe, what should I do? _

_ I don’t know yet. But you are smart, Nott. So very smart. And I am too, though not as smart as you. We will figure it out.) _

That was the end of it. Nott hadn’t pushed, and Caleb had sunk deeper into his own head, and the  _ after _ never happened. It was their last real conversation before leaving Nicodranas, that night after they visited Yussa’s tower. Everyone else was happy, content to enjoy the comforts of the Chateau after so long at sea. Nott didn’t want to spend her first restful evening in months talking about Caleb dying or disappearing or leaving her behind. She hadn’t understood why he was suddenly so worried about all this. Hadn’t understood what the rush was. Hadn’t understood why the whole walk back from the tower, Caleb’s hands shook. 

Two weeks later, they were in Felderwin, and Caleb was puking his guts out on the floor of her husband’s apothecary, and Nott understood too well. He’d been trying to protect her too, hadn’t he? He knew someone, someday was going to end up paying the price for his past, and that that someone might not be him.

He’d just guessed wrong about who.

\---

Nott is no stranger to sleeping on the streets. Her strategy was once to find a dark corner near enough to other homeless folks to blend in, camouflaged in the anonymous company of people who didn’t care enough to look past the wrappings beneath her hood. It worked - except when it didn’t. But most of the time, it worked.

She passes a few figures slumped against walls as she hurries along, most of them shivering despite the warm air, but she would have expected… more? The ones she does come across look like the worst off of the lot, people with absolutely nowhere else to go. There aren’t any groups big enough to huddle nearby, and if she passes out alone, she’s likely to wake to a Crownsguard’s hand on her shoulder, gentle until they realize her childish body doesn’t match the wicked teeth. When your very existence is a crime, that’s a pretty quick way to end up in jail, or worse.

(Yeza used to give out coins to the vagabonds who wandered through town and knocked on their door, asking for alms. Veth was always cross with him over it, though she couldn’t force him to stop. With three mouths to feed and her son crying out for more after every meal, they needed every meagre penny they earned. The crusts those coppers would have bought were more important than charity. 

Years later, Nott discovered that most farmers were not as soft-hearted as her husband. It was safer to scam than to beg, because at least when they thought they were getting something out of it, they wouldn’t reach for a sickle on sight. She bought back her right to exist by the hour, with fake silvers and wooden bowls and the promise to never come back again. It was enough to eat. It was enough to survive, and she learned not to count on anything from anyone. 

At least, not until Caleb.)

Nott’s purse is weighed heavy with coin, but her existence is still measured in hours. She won’t starve - she has provisions aplenty in the haversack - but she won’t last long on her own, not without magic or companions to hide behind.

Her invisibility is just about to drop when she stumbles upon a park, some public greenway with perfectly manicured trees and low benches for rich people to sit and wile away their empty hours. She’s contemplating climbing a tree and sleeping with the birds when she spots it: a mausoleum at the center of the park, nestled in the circle of benches. Its high stone slabs rise above criss-crossed branches, a harsh design softened by engravings of vines and grapes and prayers in an unfamiliar tongue. The lock is heavy but simple to pick, and her hands reappear in the split second before the door closes and shuts out the last of the moonlight. 

Over the next hour, Nott manages to bandage the worst of the dagger wounds on her arms and chest, and discovers that it’s possible to drain her flask quick enough to suck down the last drops before the booze has time to replenish. With a belly on fire and a blessedly dulled mind, she falls into a restless sleep beneath the shadow of stacked graves. So long as no one dies overnight, she should be safe. 

So long as no one dies.

Nott wakes to a splitting headache and the sting of liquor and bile in the back of her throat, with no idea how long she’s slept, only that it was long enough to leave her horribly clear-headed. The flask is back in her hands before she’s fully roused, and she drinks in slow sips, and stares at the ceiling, and waits for her courage to return. 

Caleb told her to stay put. Wait it out. She agreed. That was the plan.

But that was before the apothecary. That was before Yeza, and Luc. 

There’s something burning inside of her, beyond the liquor and the fear. There’s something cracked in her chest that she doesn’t know how to fix.

There was a time where if Caleb had told her they were going, she would have gone. She’d have left behind the group, left behind everything they’d built on a single word. There was nothing else that shone brighter than him, because he needed her, and she needed him in turn, for survival and for everything else that made survival worth doing. 

It’s been three days since Felderwin. Nott thinks she should have forgiven him by now, thinks he probably doesn’t deserve it in the first place, but the same bubble of anger keeps rising to the surface: the one that echoed blistering words around the apothecary basement, all its reddish swirls stained with guilt. 

_ Wasn’t one of my families enough of a price to pay? _

She stranges the bubble in another sip of liquor.

She can’t leave Rexxentrum. Yeza is still here, and the rest of the Nein might still be alive, even if they’re captured. Captured is a whole lot better than dead. They’ve dealt with captured before. 

She’s feeling less hopeless by a tiny margin. It’s progress. Better keep it going. Better drink more. 

Nott waits as long as she can stand it, but the restlessness is too much to take. She’s feeling bold, she’s ready to move, and waiting around isn’t getting anyone back. As long as she’s careful, nobody will see her, and she’ll still be safe. And that was the plan. That she should stay safe and unseen, so that she could come back and rescue everyone. Just for a little while, long enough for the heat to die down. Caleb wouldn’t have meant for her to leave the group behind permanently.

Right?

Right.

She waits until she’s sure there aren’t any nearby footsteps, then slips into the disguise of a swarthy dwarven man and sneaks out the door. 

Six hours. That’s what she has to work with, roughly, and then she has to be hidden again. Two hours of invisibility and four hours of disguises. That’s a lot of time, if you think about it. That’s plenty. 

The only way she can think to navigate is to find a city wall and follow it, and she’s used up three of her six precious hours by the time she arrives back at the front gates of the city. A few lonesome stretches with just the mask buys her a bit of extra travel time, but she’s got no choice but to use her magic on the main thoroughfare. There are too many people, too many chances to be caught.

At last, she lights on something else familiar: the ribbon stall that Jester was so excited about yesterday. She’d bought three pink bows, and given one to Nott. It’s still crushed into her pocket, beneath the amulet-

The amulet.

_ Fuck _ .

Nott hurriedly pulls it out and drops the chain around her neck. She doesn’t think anyone saw enough of her last night to know her face, but she shouldn’t be taking risks, she can’t afford to be stupid, she has to be  _ smart _ , like Caleb said. Everyone’s counting on her. 

She takes a swig and quickens her veering steps.

Nott follows the spoke of the main road to the city center, ignoring the path to the Lion’s Rest Inn and heading instead towards the Soltryce Academy. A Crownsguard stares at her with squinted eyes as she passes, probably suspicious of her occasional stumble. She should be frightened of his attention, but she’s not. She’s not afraid of anything. She’s brave, because her eyes are swimming, and if she finds blood smears across the ground where their bodies lay, then that’s what she finds, and if not, well, there’s always more in the flask to keep her brave for another hour or two, for long enough to get out of sight. 

(She’s heard that too much drink can kill a person, just rot their insides right out. Sometimes she wonders if that’s true for goblins too. Mostly, she tries not to think about it.)

Nott doesn’t get too close to the white gates of the Academy - just close enough to see that they’re just as tightly closed as the night before - because from that point it’s easy to track the path they took away. She takes off along it just as dusk begins to settle once again.

Time’s been shuttering a bit, slowing with each sip of booze and turning one step into three more she doesn’t remember taking, and far sooner than she’d hoped the last of her disguises drops. Should she burn an invisibility spell? She can’t risk exhausting all her resources, not if she wants to find another place to sleep tonight. Nott pulls out the porcelain mask and slips it into place, pulling tighter to the side of the wall as she rounds the corner, and finds herself in the alley where the fight took place. 

It’s the right place. There are scorch marks on the underside of the two buildings from Caleb’s flames. There are claw marks in the wooden frame where she hauled herself up onto the roof. It’s the  _ right place _ . 

Then where’s all the blood? 

No matter what happened after Nott left, there should be  _ some _ blood splatters on the ground. Jester was this close to unconsciousness, and Fjord was pretty bad off too, even if Caduceus managed to heal them both back up by the end. It’s like someone came by and washed down the entire street - no trace of red at all. No sign of any bodies either. The only clue Nott uncovers in ten minutes of searching around is a silver dagger, wedged between two barrels at the mouth of another alley.

Nott turns in slow circles, searching for any clue, any hint she might have missed. Where-

There’s something moving at the end of the street. 

Some _ one _ .

Nott drops to the ground and vanishes. 

The figure seems to fade into the walls, becomnig barely more than a shadow as they make their way down the street. They follow the same searching pattern Nott completed minutes before, and she sucks in her gut as their feet pass just inches from her hiding spot.

The black cloak, the slinky movement, the superhuman stealth. It can’t be anyone else. This is one of the people who attacked them last night. 

Nott hears a soft curse as the figure completes their search, seemingly as fruitless as hers. As they leave the alley she follows, compelled both by curiosity and an utter lack of better options. 

She hadn’t given it much thought until now, but why  _ had _ they been attacked? Did Ikithon know they were coming and hire mercenaries to capture them? But no, that woman blasted some of the cloaked figures with her lightning, and she was with Ikithon. So if they aren’t on the same side as the Assembly, why attack the Nein? The group hasn’t been in Rexxentrum long enough to make enemies, especially not an elite group of… whoever these people are.

Nott trails the figure as closely as she dares. They’re as skilled at hiding their movements as her, but she has the benefit of being able to step out into the open without losing cover, and manages to keep pace until they make it back to the main street, which is basically deserted now that the sun’s set. At one point, Nott nearly trods on a street cat’s tail as it swishes out from beneath a merchant’s cart, just barely catching herself on the rickety wood before her foot comes down. The figure pauses and cocks their head at the sound, but eventually they carry on. Nott follows with a racing heart, watching her step more carefully.

The figure turns off the main street into an alley beside an enormous building. Nott’s just quick enough to catch sight of a leatherbound boot as they vanish through a high window. Her ascent isn’t quite as graceful, but she does manage to make it to the top without slipping. She finds herself staring down into the broad expanse of an abandoned amphitheatre, almost like the Victory Pit in Zadash but at three times the scale.

Also, her target is gone.

Nott silently clambers down the rows of seats until she reaches the sandy bottom of the arena. There are fresh footprints leading towards one of many iron-barred gates that ring the pit. She nearly steps down onto the sand, but thinks better of it, and instead traverses the bottom row of seats until the circle brings her around to the other side. 

It turns out the footsteps weren’t leading to the gate at all. They were leading to a door beside it, whose wood is painted a dull white to blend in with the hue of the walls. It doesn’t look like there’s a lock, but she doesn’t want to open it and chance running straight into the back of the person she’s trailing. The gate, on the other hand? That’s a possibility. The grid of bars is spaced to hold back larger creatures, and it would be a tight squeeze, but she’s probably small enough to slip through. 

Nott takes one final swig from her flask and swings her feet to rest on one of the lower bars. A quick hop gets her hands a grip as well, and from there she wriggles through the narrow space, holding her crossbow between her teeth so that it doesn’t clang against the metal. She drops to the checkered sand with a soft  _ pfft  _ and darts to the wall. 

There’s nobody in immediate sight. No alarms either, so that’s good. Nott creeps along until she spots torchlight and steps up gingerly to the edge of a larger chamber, just outside the ring of light. In the centre of the rounded room, she spots the figure from before, facing away from her. A woman paces back and forth at his side, and near the back of the room there are at least five other figures, either sleeping or sharpening blades or speaking in hushed whispers. It’s hard to tell from this distance if more people lurk in the shadows beyond.

She’s too far to make out the conversation between the figures in the center, so she takes a few furtive steps into the light, praying that nobody notices her sourceless footprints. 

“-no sign of Talia. She was in the back too, she wouldn’t have caught the full blast.” The figure turns as the woman paces in Nott’s direction, finally revealing the face of an elven man, his dark skin split by spidery burns that crawl from his forehead to his chin. The wounds reflect the torchlight, still shiny and raw.

“All the others have reported back by now,” the woman says. “Do you think they took her?” 

The man shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. They haven’t gotten anyone since Avery. They left the rest of us, though. Could be they don’t need anyone else right now, or at least not many. Or she could be in another safehouse. I’ll send someone to Ivanov’s to check there.”

The woman finally stills her movement, turning to face the man. “What about the mercenaries? Any sign of where they went?”

“Nothing.” He pauses. “I don’t know, Orana. After all that, I’m not sure they were with the Academy after all. There was only one wizard in the group, and he wasn’t dressed like any mage I’ve ever seen.”

_ Caleb,  _ Nott realizes.  _ They’re talking about us. _

“So we risked it all for nothing.” she says, her smile tight and bitter. The man bows his head, and her expression softens by degrees as she puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not blaming you, Leon. You made a call with limited information - I’d probably have done the same thing. It’s just shitty, shitty luck.”

So whoever these people are, they aren’t working with Ikithon or the Academy. They also don’t know where the Nein are, which makes them functionally useless to Nott. She turns on her heel, ready to head back out into the city, and steps straight into the edge of a blade.

“Where do you think you’re going, little spy?” the man sneers, and Nott darts backwards, whipping out her crossbow. 

Her visible crossbow, held in  _ visible _ hands.

_ Fuck. _

Nott’s finger twitches on the trigger, but she doesn’t get the chance to fire before something hard and heavy comes down on the back of her skull, and her vision goes black. 

\---

Nott blinks back to consciousness to sand, and more sand, and a lot of feet.

“-swear I heard something following me. Thought I was just being paranoid.”

A hand grabs Nott by the shoulder and pulls her up into a kneeling position. Her hands are tied behind her back at the wrists and the elbows. Nott pulls uselessly against the bonds, snarling as the woman from before steps out and stands in front of the crowd.

“Now this is a strange thing to find,” she says cooly, twirling a silver blade between her fingers. Nott knows exactly how sharp it is: she tasted the same steel last night. “A goblin, this far into Rexxentrum? What’s your interest with the Sewn Teeth?” Nott keeps silent.  _ Sewn Teeth? _ It sounds like gibberish, she’s never heard the name before. “I’ll remind you that since you’ve stumbled into our little hideout here, and nearly shot one of our members in the process, I’ve got all the reason in the world to slit your throat. I suggest you give me a better one not to.”

Nott has no idea what to say. Even if she hadn’t snuck into the den of the very group of people who tried to murder her less than twenty-four hours ago, she’s still a goblin. That’s reason enough for most people to put a blade in her chest.  _ Don’t kill me, I swear I’m one of the good ones _ , seems like a pretty thin excuse. 

The man with the burns on his face - ‘Leon’, and he had called the woman ‘Orana’ - steps forward before Nott can decide on a defence. “Wait,” he says, holding up his hand to Orana. He crouches down in front of Nott and pulls aside her cloak, revealing the cuts in her red-stained shirt that she hasn’t had time to mend. “I think I know this one.” Orana stares at him, confused. “She was there. She was with the group of mercenaries.” 

Orana’s expression passes from surprise to something dark and unreadable as she turns back to Nott. “We went through a lot of bandages patching up puncture wounds last night. Your crossbow put them there?”

“... Sorry?” Nott says weakly, then because she can’t help herself, she adds, “To be fair, your people started it.”

“It speaks!” cries a voice to the side, and Orana hushes the speaker with a glare. 

“Do a sweep, make sure nobody else is skulking around,” she orders, and a few of the figures at the back of the room head towards the gate. She looks back to Nott. The blade turns in slow arcs, and Nott eyes its movement, swallowing as it grazes dangerously close to her cheek. “Who are you? What were you and your friends doing at the Academy?”

Nott takes stock of what she has to offer this woman in exchange for her freedom. Gold, maybe? But no, they’ve taken her purse already. The pink haversack too, not that Nott could exactly ask to pull something out without giving up how the magic bag works, and she’s not ready to surrender all their possessions if she can help it.

“I, uh,” Nott says. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. It kind of seems like we’re on the same side, actually.”

“What side would that be?”

“When I was-  _ eavesdropping  _ is such a loaded word - let’s say I  _ accidentally overheard _ a bit of your conversation. Not big fans of the Academy, right?” Orana purses her lips, but she doesn’t deny it. “Yeah, me and my friends aren’t either. You said that they took someone someone of yours? Someone named Talia? We think they took someone of ours too.” Orana glances at Leon, her brow furrowed. “And now I think they took all of us. Except me.” 

“If that’s true,” Orana says slowly. “If those mages decided to take your group in, then how did  _ you _ get away?”

“I got in here, didn’t I?” Nott shrugs as far as the bindings allow. “I’m pretty sneaky."

“She makes a fair point,” Leon supplies, the slightest twinkle of amusement in his eye. Good, he thinks she’s funny. Funny’s better than dangerous.

“Look,” Nott says, speaking as much to Leon as to Orana. “I get that you probably really want to kill me right now. But maybe we could make a deal instead? Do a little quid pro quo?”

“You think you’re in a position to be bargaining?” 

“No, not really,” Nott admits. “But I’ve got to try, right? I’ll try anything.” Maybe it’s the liquor still coursing through her veins, but she lets a little more desperation slip into her voice than she intended to. Orana considers a moment before letting out a long, low sigh. The blade comes to rest above her knee, with its tip pointed to the floor. 

“Who did they take from you?”

Nott answers without hesitation. Every second she’s talking is a second she’s still alive. “My husband.”

“And your husband, was he someone important? Someone rich and powerful?” Orana’s tone makes it very clear: there is a right and a wrong answer to this question.

Nott thinks about lying. She could say that her husband is a mighty duke who’ll grant Orana a priceless boon if she lets Nott go. But who would believe that? Dukes don’t marry goblins. They don’t marry clumsy farm girls from Felderwin either. 

“No,” Nott says. “He’s nobody special, not really. But he’s special to  _ me _ .”

Orana crouches down and stares Nott dead in the eye. “Interesting.” She draws her blade up, and Nott squeezes her eyes shut, and waits for the inevitable pain. 

The blade comes down with a whistle, and the ropes at her back fall away. 

“Orana-” Leon starts, stepping protectively between the two of them as Nott keels over onto the sand. The rush of relief at the unexpected reprieve nearly knocks the wind right out of her.

“She’s not going to run away. She knows how stupid that would be.”

“Right,” Nott quickly agrees, rubbing at the sore spots where the ropes dug in as she pulls herself back up to her knees. “I am absolutely not even thinking a little bit about running away.”

“Good.” Orana stands and gestures for Nott to follow her. “Then let’s talk.”

\---

Nott is given a spot near the back of the room to sit, and a bowl of porridge when her stomach audibly growls. She’s also given the room’s full attention. More figures in black cloaks drift in and out of the shadows, making it impossible to count their true numbers, but she can’t shake the sense that there are more ears listening than the ones she can see. 

It really would be stupid to run with this many knife-wielders watching her, but Nott’s not sure she wants to. So long as nobody’s got a blade to her throat, it’s probably safer here than dodging the Crownsguard, and besides, if these people aren’t lying about their beef with the Academy, then maybe they know something. Maybe they can help.

Nott tells their story in fragments, doing her best to summarize the events that brought the Nein to Rexxentrum in a way that doesn’t paint her husband as a Cerberus Assembly collaborator. The notion of a halfling married to a goblin gets a few raised eyebrows, but she breezes along before anyone can think too hard about it. Leaving out any details of dodecahedrons or dunamancy, Nott explains about Yeza’s apothecary, and how the Cerberus Assembly stole him to help with a secret project.

“Is that the only reason they picked your husband?” Orana asks, like she already knows the answer. She sits across from Nott in the sand, crosslegged and casual, but the others still bend around her aura of authority. Nott has no idea what she’s getting at, so she hastily takes another bite of the porridge. It’s cold and sticks in her throat, but she tries to feign enjoyment anyway. Maybe these people are nicer to their prisoners better than goblin hordes or small town jailors, but kind treatment now doesn’t guarantee she’ll get the same later, and she has no intention of starving to death with the pink haversack and its provisions mere feet away.

“I mean… why else? He’s a very good alchemist,” Nott insists.

“You don’t think there are plenty of good alchemists here in Rexxentrum? Well respected, highly educated scholars, at the top of their fields?”

“Sure,” Nott concedes. “But they must have chosen him for a reason.”

“Of course they did,” Orana says, waving away another bowl of porridge offered by Leon. He shrugs and settles down next to her, digging into his own portion. “He was a nobody, from nowhere. That’s exactly why they chose him.” Nott bristles a little. Even though she’d essentially called Yeza the same thing ten minutes ago, hearing someone else say it still stings. “That’s how they pick everyone that they take.”

“Everyone?”

“You think your husband was the first person to disappear?”

“...Yes? No. I guess not.” She hadn’t thought about it, truthfully.

“Did you know, a decade ago the Sewn Teeth didn’t exist?” Before tonight, Nott didn’t know they existed  _ period _ , but she keeps that to herself. “Oh, Rexxentrum had all the typical thieves and ne'er-do-wells, of course, but nothing organized like this. Everybody left each other well enough alone, and that’s how we liked it. Don’t ask me my business, I won’t ask you yours.

“I was probably eighteen, been out on my own for a few years, when people started disappearing. Not many, not often - a beggar here, an orphan there. Only the people with nobody left to miss them. But people on the street talk, and  _ we _ noticed. I kept hearing the same whisper: it wasn’t safe to be out at night, people in robes might come and snatch you up. Wasn’t exactly hard to figure out who was doing the snatching once a few of us started putting the pieces together, but who was going to believe some crazy homeless folks over the Cerberus Assembly?” Orana scoffs. “I think they learned their lesson too well from that Xhorhas disaster. This whole thing’s got Ikithon’s fingerprints all over it.”

“What? Ikithon? Xhorhas disaster?” Nott nearly knocks the porridge out of her lap as she lurches forward, shaking her head to try and rattle Orana’s words into something that makes sense. “What?”

“You must really be from the fields,” Leon wonders aloud, and Nott shoots him a glare. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “No offense. This was probably decades before you were born, anyway.”

“Even  _ I _ wasn’t born,” Orana reminds him. “But everyone this close to the border knows about it.”

“Xhorhas accused the Dwendalian government of kidnapping hundreds of citizens from their border towns,” Leon explains. “Of course, the government denied any involvement, which was about as blatant a lie as they come. Even if it wasn’t sanctioned, someone high up  _ had _ to know. Nobody could have pulled something of that scale without a lot of coin and a lot of resources.”

“My mother used to tell me that it was the closest she’d ever seen this city to revolt,” Orana picks up. “People were furious - all the Dwendalian toadies were angry at Xhorhas for besmirching the Empire’s good name, and anybody with half a brain in their head knew that it was probably true, that either the government or the Cerberus Assembly probably _ were  _ involved. People were terrified: of Xhorhas’s retaliation, of the government not being able to do anything to stop them, of a war that could have started thirty years early.” 

Leon continues. “Of course, after that utter disgrace the old Archmage of Civil Influence quietly ‘retired’, and the Assembly conscripted someone younger and less sullied to clean up the mess: his annex, Trent Ikithon.” Nott shivers at the name. “Five years under his direction, and suddenly the government was back in the good graces of the people. No more public incidents, no more outcries, no more scrutiny.”

“And meanwhile, what’s a few beggars gone? The streets are clean, and everyone’s happy,” Orana finishes. “See, I think Ikithon learned a lot from that incident. Making people disappear isn’t the problem. You just have to pick the  _ right  _ people.”  _ Like Yeza. _ “But we learned too. Once we all realized what was happening, us street folk got closer. Anyone that had a place to stay took in the people that didn’t. People like me, who knew how to fight? We taught the ones who’d never touched a blade. Thieves and pushers started bringing in their supply lines, and suddenly we had the finest steel, decent armor, enough provisions to outlast. We were an army, and our leader Avery made sure everyone knew it. You go after the people without families? We’ll make our own. You try to steal our friends? We’ll make you pay through the  _ teeth _ for it.

“The kicker is, it almost worked. One kidnapping a month turned into every four months, and then nothing. For a while, we thought we really had won. But something changed, maybe three, four years back? I don’t know why, but they started coming after us again. And it was different this time. They didn’t go for the easiest targets like before, they went for the  _ strongest _ . They’d raid a hideout and only take the best fighters in the bunch.”

“And then they took Avery,” Leon says.

“Then they took Avery,” Orana repeats. “Waltzed straight into our headquarters and took him in the dead of night. I stepped up because there was no one else, but that was the last straw. I don’t intend to sit still, not if there’s still a chance he’s alive.” A number of nods drift through the rest of the listening figures. “We’ve known for years that the people they take end up in the Academy eventually. From what information we’ve managed to gather,  they’re doing some sort of magical experimentation on them in there. Sick bastards.”

“Yeah,” Nott murmurs. “I think you’re right about that.”

“What do you mean?” Orana looks at her sharply.

“I have… a friend, who went to the Academy.” Nott swallows hard. “They put things in his arms. To make him stronger, or something.” 

She thinks of Caleb, no less young in her mind’s eye at fifteen as he was two days ago. He came here from Blumenthal, a village smaller than Felderwin, and twice as remote.

_ He was a nobody, from nowhere. That’s exactly why they chose him. _

Orana looks a little sick at Nott’s words, but she pushes on. “We’ve been trying to do a little kidnapping of our own. Figured if we could find out more, we might be able to figure out what they want our people for, maybe even put a stop to it for good. But how are we supposed to hold a full-fledged mage when they can just teleport straight out of our hands?”

“That’s why we came after your group,” Leon explains. “One of our scouts spotted you leaving the campus. Some of you looked well-dressed enough to be affiliated with the Academy, but not all of you were wizards. The plan was to grab one of you, someone without magic, and find out what you knew. Which I suppose is what ended up happening, one way or the other.” He chuckles awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Now that we know what we know, I wish we’d gone about it a different way.” 

“Just so we’re clear,” Nott says slowly. “Not that I am, because I’m  _ definitely  _ not, but how do you know I’m  _ not _ secretly working with the Academy? You’re trusting me with a lot here.”

“Because if the Cerberus Assembly knew where we were and wanted to mess with us, they wouldn’t bother sending in a spy. They wouldn’t need to. And besides,” Orana says, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a goblin.”

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t think the Cerberus Assembly would be willing to…  _ lower _ themselves to working with a goblin.”

“But you are?” Nott asks. She can’t help the suspicion in her voice. She’s disarmed, without backup, and these people could kill her with almost no effort at all. Maybe now that she’s given them what they want, they’ll decide she’s not worth the trouble to keep. 

“You’re a  _ goblin _ ,” Orana says again, “which means you’re stuck in a city full of people that hate you on principle. Who despise you for sullying their white streets and scaring their children and for having the audacity to simply  _ exist.  _ Do I trust you? No, not yet. But, friend, you  _ exactly  _ who the Sewn Teeth was made for.”

\---

It ends up amounting to pretty much what Caleb intended, in that Nott is forced to wait for things to settle before doing anything about their predicament.

Orana seems to believe her story, but still doesn’t trust her quite enough to let her leave the compound. It turns out that behind the gate lies the remains of old gladiatorial quarters, which the Sewn Teeth have converted into a makeshift living space. There isn’t enough room for everyone in the rotted bunks, so most people sleep in whatever open spaces they can find. It’s crowded, and damp, and cold, and Nott is champing at the bit to leave by the end of the third day. Orana brushes her off like a pesky fly as Nott hounds her around the corridors.

“We need information, and patience. Moving without all the facts is what got us into this mess in the first place.” 

“We  _ need  _ to figure out what the Cerberus Assembly is doing with my friends.”

“I have a duty to protect my own people first. Nott, when we know something more, we will tell you. I swear it.”

To keep her occupied, Orana tasks Leon to get Nott acquainted with the weapons favoured by the Teeth. She’s a quick study, though the blades are less like daggers and more like shortswords in her small hands. Leon is an encouraging, if demanding teacher, and they get along alright. The first time she manages to turn his own blade back against his chest, he even smiles and ruffles her hair. Her heart aches at the remembrance of a similar touch, from a less-calloused hand, and she ducks out of reach before it becomes too much. Leon quickly apologizes, and from then on he keeps a respectful distance between them outside of their sparring lessons. Nott almost regrets pulling away when she sees how careful he becomes. She can’t help but wonder if when he looks at her, he sees a ghost too.

The rest of the Teeth mostly leave Nott to her own devices, but some do reach out over meals or in the quiet hours before sleep, and over the course of the first week, she meets a number of interesting people. First, a boy with a wide grin and half a dozen missing teeth. Then a grizzled old woman with a sharp wit that’s matched by the even sharper blade she wields with her one remaining arm. There’s even a girl with a baby on her breast, who flinches at Nott’s approach but softens as she coos over her little one. She learns their stories in pieces: a runaway from the ships of Port Damali, an army veteran wracked by too much pain to support herself after returning home, a teenage bride to a much older man, who sought sanctuary in the kinder arms of thieves.

They ask for her story, and she tells them the closest thing to the truth she can: that she loved her husband dearly, but that for her safety and his, she had to leave her family behind. That nobody could accept a goblin married to a halfling man. That they would have killed her if she stayed. 

(She doesn’t tell them that Yeza still doesn’t know what she is. She doesn’t tell them that even if Yeza is saved, she still might not have a home to go back to.)

\---

Orana pulls Nott aside and tells her that there’s word of someone stirring up some legal trouble with the Assembly. More delays, more waiting. There are too many eyes on the Academy to risk making a move, so Nott trains for a fight she doesn’t yet know the shape of, and worries, and sleeps in the cold with a weight on her chest that doesn’t ease.

\---

Nearly a week after her arrival, there’s a great commotion in the main room. One of the scouts rushes in, looking frightened and out of breath after only leaving minutes before. “Someone’s outside,” he whispers. Orana is out doing whatever it is she does during the day, but Leon snaps to attention in an instant. “Who?” Dozens of eyes glitter, suddenly alert. Any hand that isn’t already holding a blade reaches for one.

“A woman. Blue and grey clothing. Not robes.” Nott’s heart leaps. It couldn’t be. Anyone could have blue and grey clothes, and she saw Beau collapse with the rest of them. But-

“Did she see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Nott rushes up to the gate at Leon’s side, but by the time they make it, there’s nobody there. Leon lets out a slow sigh of relief. “Maybe it was just a kid looking for a place to graffiti. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

It probably wasn’t Beau. 

It  _ couldn’t _ have been Beau. 

That certainty doesn’t stop Nott from tossing and turning at night, wondering.

\---

A week passes, and nothing happens, and Nott is ready to scream.  _ Does  _ scream, in fact, and it takes all of Orana’s patience and a couple of hapless Teeth to keep her from making a break for the exit. “There’s a trial scheduled,” she forces in when Nott’s finally stopped spitting curses at the two men holding her down. “They’re taking on the Cerberus Assembly in court. Someone must really care about your friends.” Nott slackens in their grip, searching her brain for  _ anyone _ they know who would be willing to put their neck on the line for the Nein. She comes up empty. Nobody else even knew they were going to be in Rexxentrum. 

Unless…

“I have a hunch,” Nott offers. “I’m probably wrong. If I’m right though… then she’s definitely someone you’re going to want to kidnap.”

\---

It’s decided. They’ll wait to find out what happens in the court case, in case by some miracle the Nein actually get a positive verdict, then try to grab whoever the mysterious benefactor might be. It’s a closed docket, supposedly, but all it takes is a few carefully chosen bribes and a city clerk with a big mouth to find out that the plantiff is listed as the Cobalt Soul. Nott’s cautious hope grows. She throws herself into her training threefold and the night before the trial, she goes to sleep with scraped knees and a mind that refuses to quiet no matter how much she drinks.

It’s Leon who takes on the final mission, and Nott’s glad it’s him. She knows his combat style now, knows how it’s tailored to incapacitate rather than kill, and she’s pretty sure nobody less skilled than Orana’s second-in-command could take Beau down without one of the two getting seriously hurt. 

They don’t know the outcome of the trial yet when he leaves for the government hall, and Nott paces alongside Orana as they wait, and wait, and-

And then he’s back, but the person Leon drags in kicking and screaming isn’t dressed at all like Beau, and Nott’s heart plummets. It’s not her, it’s not-

Leon tears the bag off and steps away as Beau’s red face emerges, and Nott’s heart is full to bursting as she dashes forward. Beau’s arms are strong and familiar and  _ real  _ and Nott holds on tight and squeezes, heedless of all the pointy bits of her that are sticking into Beau’s skin. 

“I didn’t believe it when they said they saw you, but I should have, I should-” She can’t seem to make her words work right, can’t catch her breath with the  _ relief _ of it all.

“ _ Nott? _ ”

“You all collapsed. I didn’t know if anyone was still alive. I couldn’t find-”

“I’m ok,” Beau says, holding Nott like she expects her to vanish as soon as she lets go. “I’m alive. Caleb’s alive. The others, I think they’re fine too. I… I hope so.” Nott resolutely refuses to cry, but she shreds the back of Beau’s coat with her nails as she drags her even closer. “Where have you been?”

“Oh,” Nott says.  _ Shit _ , right. She doesn’t know. “Here.” She pulls back, and Beau finally gets a good look at where she is. Her face transforms into a mask of dawning horror.

“I can explain,” Nott blurts out, because Beau has to know that she didn’t stop looking. She would have never abandoned them.  _ Never. _

“You know this is a gang, right?” Beau hisses, quiet enough that Orana and the others  _ probably  _ can’t hear. “Like, the real hardcore shit. You joined a  _ gang? _ ”

“The Sewn Teeth, right?” Beau just stares at her. “Yeah, I got that.” Nott shrugs. “Guess I’m a member now?” Beau’s expression is somewhere between disbelieving and scandalized. 

“Nott, that’s-”

“Care to introduce your friend?” Orana asks, pushing herself off the wall and walking forward. Beau’s head whips up, immediately tensing in Nott’s arms. 

“This is Beau,” Nott says. “She’s cool.” 

“Then welcome, Beau,” Orana says, and the Teeth that had their hands on their blades start to relax. “Seems like you already know who we are. You’re a part of the Mighty Nein, I assume?” 

“You told them about us?” Beau hisses at Nott before shifting her voice into something almost diplomatic, but already fraying at the edges. “Sure am.”

“I was under the impression that everyone in your group was captured by the Cerberus Assembly, except Nott here. Mind telling me how you escaped?”

“What’s it got to do with you?” Beau bites back like a dog snapping at the offered hand. Nott can feel the adrenaline vibrating through her skin. She’s rattled, and scared, and those things together don’t usually mean wise decisions for any of the Nein, least of all Beau. 

“How about something to eat?” Nott suggests.

\---

More introductions are made, and things settle down a bit once Beau has something to occupy her hands, even if it’s just tearing a hunk of bread into increasingly tiny bits. 

“So, what did happen?” Nott asks. “All I saw was everyone on the ground before, well…”

“Fucking Ikithon happened,” Beau mutters, still staring down at her mountain of bready scraps. “Cast some kind of spell, and next thing I knew, I woke up in a dorm room in the Academy. They left me and Jester and Fjord and Caduceus together, but Yasha was just  _ gone _ , and Caleb… he was gone too.” Beau’s face darkens and she chews on her next words, leaving Orana time to interject.

“And you managed to leave the Academy, how?” Nott knows her well enough now that she doesn’t mistake the urgency in her voice for suspicion, though Beau clearly does, judging by the way her shoulders tighten.

“They let me go,” Beau says, eyeing Orana carefully. “I don’t think they really cared that much about most of us. We were collateral damage.”

“Collateral damage, in service of what?”

Beau looks to Nott, asking a question without words.  _ How much did you tell them?  _ Nott doesn’t really know how to convey her response without speaking.  _ Not everything, but we’re kind of committed at this point. _ She shrugs helplessly, and Beau grimaces before turning back to Orana.

“Do you know who Trent Ikithon is?” 

“Too well,” Orana says darkly.

“Well, he had a special…  _ interest _ in a few members of our party. I think he saw a chance and he took it.”

“Do you know what he wanted with them?”

“...Nope.”  _ Lie _ . Beau’s lying, and she can probably get away with it with Orana, but Nott’s doesn’t miss the way her eyebrow tics - a familiar tell. Beau knows something more than she’s saying. 

“But you were inside the Academy,” Orana muses. “And the rest of your party… they’re still there. They’ve been there for weeks.” Some sort of realization dawns in her eyes, and she leans forward. “Do you know what they were going to do with the others, the ones they kept?”

“The Headmistress said something about training. Not sure if that was a lie or not.”

“Training,” Orana echoes. “Then it’s possible they might not be prisoners after all.” 

“They’re not there willingly,” Beau snaps. Nott’s not exactly sure what about the question got her riled up again, but Beau’s eyes are blazing again. “They’re fucking prisoners.”

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Orana says calmly, unmoved by Beau’s sudden raised voice. “I meant that they might have more freedom to move around the school than our people do.”

“What does that-”

Beau abruptly cuts off, eyes blown open in shock as she holds up her hands and makes the universal movement for  _ shut up! _ Orana and Leon glance at each other in confusion. 

After a tense pause, Beau finally speaks, but it’s not to Nott or Orana.

“Holy shit. Jester? Holy shit- uh- shit. I’m fine. I’m with Nott. Fuck. I thought you were in Bladegarden. Guess that was a lie, huh?” Beau sucks in a breath. “Look, we’re working on getting you out, just hang on. Ok, Jester? Hang on.”

“Jester? Was that Jester?” Nott grabs Beau by the wrist as Orana blurts out, “What the hell just happened?”

Beau ignores Orana, her eyes only for Nott. “This is the first time she’s messaged me. Was she messaging you?”

“No,” Nott says, frantically shaking her head. “She never messaged me. What happened? What did she say?”

“She wanted to make sure I was alright, and that she was fine. Something happened, I guess, something changed and she can message people again?” 

“This is one of your friends inside the Academy? And you can talk to her?” Orana cuts in. “You didn’t think that was important to share, Nott?”

“Well,  _ I  _ can’t!” Nott says. “Only Jester knows the spell. But if she messages us, we can respond.”

Orana looks at Leon. “This changes everything. This means-”

“We’ve got a chance.” Leon finishes.

“A chance for what?” Beau says. 

“To make a plan in advance. To  _ coordinate. _ ” Orana rubs her hands together, already halfway to standing. “Tell your friend on the inside to get a list together of anything they’ll need. Bribe money, supplies,  _ whatever _ . We’ll get it to them.”

“You’re going to help us?” Beau says, suspicion still burning in her eyes. “Why?”

“We’re going to help each other,” Orana replies. “We’ll do everything we can get your people out, but I want something in return.”

Beau stiffens, but Nott already has a sneaking suspicion she knows where this is going. “What do you want from us?”

“Get our people out too. Avery, and anyone else that’s still alive.”

\---

Orana and Leon eventually go into another room to discuss things with some of the scouts, and Nott pulls Beau off into their own little corner, and helps her down to the ground. She’s exhausted - Nott can’t miss the circles burnt like ash below her eyes. She wonders how long Beau’s been awake. Probably more than a day, judging by the way she’s shivering. The tremors aren’t from adrenaline anymore, but from a body reaching the edge of its limits.

“You really think this is a good idea?” Beau says as her head falls back against the stone wall. “Do you really trust Orana, or any of them?”

“I think if they have a way to help us, then we have to take it.”

“The Sewn Teeth is a thieves’ guild,” Beau says, with more significance than Nott has the context to fully understand. “You can’t trust thieves not to double-cross you.”

“We’re both thieves,” Nott reminds her. “We met because I was trying to steal your gold.”

Beau laughs a little at that. “Didn’t seem like you were trying that hard, to be honest.” The laugh turns into a cough in the middle, and Nott presses her hands into her lap, fighting the urge to pull Beau’s fancy coat from her shoulders and tell her to lie down. She doesn’t think Beau would take the mothering well.

“... well, I  _ wanted _ to. Caleb wouldn’t let me.” That same shadow passes over Beau’s face as Caleb’s name comes up again. Nott wants to ask her what’s going on, what she’s not saying, but Beau’s eyes are already half-closed, her head nodding in time with scuffle of feet in the sand. “Long day, huh?” Nott says. It really has been, and she remembers now that Beau went through an entire hours-long trial before ending up here. No wonder she’s worn out. “Sleep, maybe?”

Beau looks like she’s going to argue, but whatever she was going to say turns into a yawn, and she deflates. “Just… wake me up in ten minutes. We’ve still got stuff… we should talk. Just need to shut my eyes for a few minutes, so I can think again.” Beau slides to the floor and curls up with her elbow beneath her temple. Within thirty seconds, she’s snoring. 

Nott looks around to see if anyone’s watching before she mirrors Beau’s position, laying down with her back to the rest of the room. The rest of the Teeth move about in the background, whispers and rustles fading in and out of earshot, and Nott watches over Beau as she sleeps. The weight on her chest eases, bit by bit.

She’s not sure when she falls asleep. She’s not even sure if she wakes up, or if it’s in a dream that she opens her eyes to see Beau propped up against the wall, speaking in whispers to the empty air.

“...not sure we can trust Caleb...Jess...”

She drifts off again, and her dreams are filled with Beau’s voice. Nott pushes the words away, because even her darkest times there are some things she’s never questioned. Still, she wakes with the same whisper on her lips: half-formed, half-remembered, half-believed.

_ Caleb. _

_ Trust. _

_ Not sure. _  
  



	17. Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jester makes good use of her re-instated messages, and everyone gets up to speed (more or less).

The lights are on when Jester wakes.

She blinks away the reddish burn behind her eyelids, revealing the sideways visage of a figure in the corner: Kirn, seated on a chair, with his nose buried in a book. His quill scritches against the paper, and the sound presses into her groggy mind like needling spurs, sharp and unpleasant.

As she stirs, Kirn looks up and smiles - or, at least, his lips curl back over his teeth. Is that what a dragonborn’s smile is? Is that what hers will look like from now on - all pointy and fierce, with no softness left?

“How are you feeling, my dear?”

Jester isn’t sure why he bothers asking. She feels nothing, of course. He knows that. He’s the reason why.

“You must have been tired,” Kirn says, closing his book. “I’m glad you managed to get some rest.”

Jester pushes herself up onto an elbow and yawns into her sleeve. The blue dress pulls beneath her shoulder, its seams still too tight to allow much in the way of movement. She’ll have to sit carefully from now on if she doesn’t want to rip the cloth.

“It’s probably well past the time for it, but maybe you’d like some dinner?” Kirn gestures over at the table. The pastry and the fruit are gone, replaced by an elegant platter topped by thinly sliced meats and coarse chunks of seed-encrusted bread. “These were some of my favourites when I was your age. Venison especially, I dearly loved. Would you like to try some?”

She stares at the tray. Though her stomach cries out for food, none of it looks appetizing. But Kirn is watching her. He wants her to eat something. And she has things to do, things he can’t be here for, which means getting rid of him. Which means doing as he says.

Jester takes a piece of the venison and pops it in her mouth.

The taste of the meat itself isn’t unfamiliar; she’s had plenty of game in the Empire, though it isn’t very common in Nicodranas’s seafood-based cuisine. The spices are different from what she’s used to, though. It’s peppery, and coated with... cumin, maybe? 

The new teeth make chewing difficult, and she ends up gulping down the strip whole. Jester gives Kirn a forced smile as she swallows, because it seems like that’s what he wants, and sure enough, his face breaks open with boyish excitement.

“I knew you’d like it,” Kirn declares. “There are so many more things you’ll have to try, things I worried would be forgotten. You will have a whole heritage to explore.” 

“How long-” _are you going to keep me locked up?_ “-before I can leave?” She pulls her arms around herself, wishing she had her cloak to ward off the chill, but not wanting to touch the clothes Kirn left for her. “It’s a bit creepy down here.” Her emotions may be tamped off, but a lingering unease sweeps in to fill the void every time she glances at the closed door - like a nightmare forgotten in the minutes after waking, an unnamed anxiety just on the tip of her tongue.

“Not long at all now, Jester. I’ve already spoken with the Cadre, and they’re quite eager to see my results. A week, perhaps? But only if you feel strong enough, of course. I know the process has taken a toll on you, both mental and physical, and I want you to take as much time as you need to rest. We have waited this long, we can wait longer still.”

“Oh, you know,” Jester says, letting her head droop and her eyes cross, “I feel pretty tired. Maybe it would be good if we waited a bit. Just so I can rest.” She parrots his words, pulling out the ones that are most helpful. As much as she wants to be out of this horrible place, she knows that as soon as they leave she loses any last shred of control she had over the situation. Better to stay put a while longer, where she at least knows the shape of her prison. 

“I agree. We’ll take this at your pace, Jester. You are the only thing that matters here.”

Kirn says it like he means it. His voice is warm, his gaze open and present. If her heart could ache, it would to see such an expression on his face, because she knows the look he wears. She’s known it all her life: in books, in songs, in her mother’s embrace. It’s soft eyes and adoration, and longing to be nearer. 

It’s love. 

From a detached perspective, it’s so easy to see that he loves her, or he thinks he does. But it’s not her that matters to him, is it? He loves what she represents. He loves what parts of himself he sees in her, loves the things he thinks they will come to share. He would have loved Vash as fiercely, or Ora, or any of the other broken corpses that lie on stone slabs beyond the door. He would have loved Eli, or Julia, or Andras if he didn’t find her first. 

He loves Jester like all the men who claim to love her mother: selfishly. But love isn’t meant to be selfish. Love is meant to be _giving_. Her mother loves her as the sun loves the sky, and she still sent her away, because Jester’s safety meant more to her than her own breaking heart. Kirn thinks he loves her, and he will never let her go.

 _Mama._ Jester’s first and truest prayer - before she met the Traveler, before she knew _words_ \- has always been for her. _Mama, I’m going to make it home to you. I’m going to see you again._ Through the blankness of Kirn’s spell a hint of light flares, a fire so unwavering that no mere magic could hope to snuff it out.

He thinks he loves her, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what the word means.

“Can I sleep for a bit longer?” she says, yawning again. Kirn’s face momentarily falls. No empathy tugs at her heartstrings - no desire to make things better, no need to fix whatever hurt lies in the room. She doesn’t want to make him happy. She wants him gone.

“Of course, my dear.” He stands, folding the book and the quill together. “I’ll be back to check on you in the morning. Is there anything you need before I go?” Kirn looks at her clothing and frowns. “Are the garments I left not to your liking?”

“I’m just more comfortable in my own things.” 

His frown deepens, but he nods. “Whatever makes you comfortable, Jester. Sleep well.”

Kirn steps into the center of the room and murmurs a word in Draconic, and his body shimmers like sunlight through stained glass. As he vanishes, the spell drops, and Jester doubles over as waves of cold revulsion flood past the arcane barrier. 

“ _Traveler_ ,” she says hoarsely, and warm hands find hers within moments. 

“I’m here.” He sits on the floor across from her, in a body more corporeal than she’s ever seen before. No more _real_ , of course - he’s always been real - but more _present._ Jester reaches out and touches the edge of his dark cloak. The fabric is fine beneath her fingertips, sleek like spider’s silk and soft to the touch. 

“I don’t understand,” Jester whispers. “I don’t understand what’s happening.” She doesn’t even have the words to articulate what she’s asking. Too many things have happened, in too short a time, and after all the repressed emotions filter through her system, what she’s left feeling is _lost_.

“I may be able to help,” the Traveler says, and tugs her down off the couch. She follows where he leads her, sliding down so that they’re both cross-legged on the hard-packed earth, facing each other. In some small way, being closer to the ground is calming. She smiles at him gratefully. “I have many questions as well, but there are machinations beyond your sight that I may be able to illuminate.”

She barely knows where to begin on the list of things she doesn’t know, but she starts with the freshest in her mind. “Kirn just teleported out of here. He teleported us both here too. How did he do that? When I tried, I almost _died_. Andras said that you can’t teleport out of school grounds, that there were wards against it.”

“Luckily, that is one question I can answer.” He points towards the ceiling, made of the same dirt as the floor but braced with wooden boards to keep it from crumbling inwards. “You haven’t left the Soltryce Academy, Jester. You are below it. Below Bahamut’s temple, more precisely.” The Traveler scowls as the name leaves his lips. A flash of anger radiates through the air and disperses just as quickly. 

“But-” she protests. “I can’t still be in the Academy, right? If I’m still in the Academy, then… couldn’t I just Dimension Door up into the sanctuary? Couldn’t I just leave?” She’s pretty sure Kirn doesn’t trust her _that_ much.

“That would certainly make things easier, wouldn’t it? But I’m afraid not. Your ‘Master Kirn’ was too clever for that.” The Traveler smirks coldly. “Or foolish, perhaps. Time will tell.” Jester wrinkles her nose, not understanding his meaning. “But let me start at the beginning. I’ve had a bit more time to puzzle on this matter than you.” 

Jester nods, folding her hands into her lap like a schoolgirl. “Ok, sure.”

“Wizards are paranoid of all the wondrous things of the world that don’t fit into their spellbooks.” The abrupt change in subject surprises Jester, but she holds herself back from interrupting. “They don’t like anything that they can’t control, and that includes the divine. We may be past the age where mages actively _hunt_ the gods, but they certainly don’t appreciate their interference.”

“Like, the people who run this school? The Cerberus Assembly?”

“Precisely. And Kirn’s ritual would have required an enormous amount of divine energy, expended very quickly - exactly the sort of thing that a number of the Academy’s wards are meant to prevent.”

“So he needed to find a way to lower the wards?” Jester asks. Though she’s not sure she sees the whole picture yet, the pieces are starting to come together. “So that they wouldn’t interfere with the ritual?”

“Or to bypass them entirely,” the Traveler suggests. “I suspect that’s why he hallowed the ground.”

“Yeah,” Jester muses. “Kirn said that word too. ‘Hallowed.’ What does it mean?” Honestly, it sounds more like a sneeze than a spell.

“Another word for it might be ‘sanctified’. ‘Blessed’ works too, though it doesn’t quite convey the same weight.” The Traveler steeples his fingers, regarding Jester intently. “I generally prefer to leave the dull metaphysics to the mages, but in this rare case I think it might be helpful.

“There are only a few ways for a god to manifest a miracle of great significance on the material plane. One is an act of divine intervention - a person of true and earnest faith calling upon their god in a moment of dire need. Their body becomes a conduit, allowing that god’s true power to pierce through the Divine Gate. But I suspect what this… _cretin_ required was something more permanent: a means of continuous access, so he could perform his experiments at will. 

“By hallowing the ground, he dedicated this entire temple and the area around it as a sanctuary to Bahamut. Whether as a side effect of his work or an intentional act, by doing so he significantly weakened the veil between this plane and the Gate. And I think _must_ have been intentional, for it would have taken months of layered enchantments to stretch it so thin. In essence, what he has done is create an artificial conduit: not a person, but instead a _pathway_ , one where divine magic can flow between his sanctuary and the Divine Gate while remaining outside the influence of the wards. And of course, once he accomplished that, he raised wards of his own, preventing access to the sanctum for anyone besides himself.” The Traveler chuckles, low and humourless. “Clerics can be just as paranoid as wizards, it seems.”

“Then how do we beat him? If he’s weakened the veil that much, wouldn’t all his magic be, like, _super_ strong?” It’s not like she expected to be able to face Kirn in one-on-one combat, but it’s definitely not cheering to know that she’s playing at such an extreme disadvantage. Jester moves to stand, to pace, to throw her axe against the wall, but the Traveler tugs her back down, urging her back into a seated position.

“Don’t despair, Jester,” he says fervently. “This man is powerful, but I think his single-mindedness will be his undoing. After all, I’m here with you, when before I could reach you only in echoes, and only then when you were near the temple.”

“Wait. Is that why you didn’t show up, when I called for you before?” She tries not to let the lingering hurt creep into her voice, but evidently she fails, because his determined look slakes to soft reassurance. 

“Jester, I _never_ stopped trying to reach you.” She offers her hands again, smiling wetly, and he gives them a little squeeze. “In weakening the veil, I don’t think Kirn anticipated what else he might let in. His power is strong here, true, but _think_ , Jester. Think about what _you’ve_ done.”

She thinks hard, and it comes to her all at once. “I sent Yasha a message,” she realizes. “I bypassed the wards too.”

“Whatever conduit he’s created for himself, he’s also lent it to you. Lent it to anyone whose power comes from the Divine, in fact. More gods than Bahamut have taken notice, Jester - more eyes than yours or mine are fixed on this little temple.” The Traveler throws his head back and laughs. Jester laughs too, not fully sure what they’re laughing at, but happy to share in his joy. “You said you wanted to send, what was it? A _fuckton_ of messages? Well, he has opened the conduit. He cannot shut it now. And it will be so _very_ easy for me to slip in and out.” The Traveler laughs again, and there’s a gleam in his eye that’s almost frightening, a mirth so cold and alien that Jester shivers despite herself. “Oh, he does not know what he’s done _at all_.” 

“I won’t have problems with Sending anymore, then?” 

“Not only that, I think you’ll find that a little faith will go a long way. Give it a try, Jester. Where would you like to start?”

Jester wracks her brain, thinking about what she already knows. Yasha is safe, alive, with Yeza. With _Yeza_ of all people, and Jester would really like to know how on earth _that_ happened, but it’s one of those interesting details that can probably wait. Fjord and Caduceus are presumably still fine, though she does wonder why neither showed up for the graduation ceremony. Caleb was very much not ok the last time she saw him, so he’s definitely on the shortlist for a check-in. As for Nott, well, Jester really has no idea where she is. And Beau…

The last time she saw Beau, she was stubbornly holding back tears, ejected from the Academy on their first day. Jester has the sudden, sickening realization that she never actually saw Beau leave the school. She just saw her dragged out of the office, never to be heard from again. 

Tross said they were letting her go, but after all, didn’t Kirn promise Jester she’d be leaving too?

“Beau,” Jester says. “Let’s try Beau.”

The Traveler was right - her magic does feel different here. Lighter, somehow. Every other time she’s cast Sending, she’s had to draw everything from the pool of energy within her chest. Now, it’s as though the air itself is laden with magic, drifting in an unseen current. All she has to do is tell the stream what to say. 

“Beau? Are you there? Just wanted to make sure you were ok. Um. We’re here at the Academy, and we’re… we’re ok. Where are you?”

It’s harder to count the words without Fjord or Caduceus to help, but she tries, pulling down fingers and glancing at the Traveler for confirmation. As soon as she hits twenty-five, his image flickers, so briefly she almost believes it’s a trick of the eye. 

After a weighty pause, Beau’s familiar voice pops into her head.

**_Holy shit. Jester? Holy shit- uh- shit. I’m fine. I’m with Nott. Fuck. I thought you were in Bladegarden. Guess that was a lie, huh? Look-_ **

Whatever Beau meant to say next gets cut off, but Jester barely notices over her heavy sigh of relief. Beau _is_ alright, and she even managed to find Nott once she got to the outside. How Beau knows that Jester is supposedly in Bladegarden is anyone’s guess, but she isn’t much concerned about that either. Let Kirn tell people what he wants. With her messages back, she can contradict him at every turn.

“Who next?” the Traveler asks.

She’d desperately like to hear Nott’s voice, just to know for sure that she’s alright, but even with the Traveler’s assurances and the relative ease of casting, Jester doesn’t know how many spells she’ll be able to eke out. It doesn’t feel unlimited, that’s for sure. She’ll just have to trust that Beau will pass on her message to Nott. It’s most important right now to get her bearings, to get a sense of where the others are, to let people know that she’s fine. (Because she’s fine. She’s _fine._ ) The last thing she needs is for everyone to start worrying about her, when they really have to focus on making a plan. 

She has a feeling she knows who’ll be worrying the most.

“Fjord.”

***

Yasha and Yeza unanimously decide to wait at least one more night before attempting escape. The acid goes back beneath the mattress, and the blindfold goes back over her eyes. It barely bothers Yasha now. Her head is still filled with Jester’s voice, Jester’s words, _Jester_. 

If there’s one message, there might be another. If there’s another, then they might not need to do this alone.

When the guards return to take Yasha away, Yeza gives them the modified sleeping draught. The scent still burns as she breathes through the gag, but the pain isn’t agonizing as it was before, and her sleep is dreamless, devoid of red eyes and devilish horns. 

It’s still hard to tell how much time has passed when she wakes from the drugged haze, but it doesn’t feel long. Yeza said this new batch would last a few hours at most, and it feels right. Yasha sits on her bed, listening for another message, praying Jester didn’t try again while she was out cold.

She doesn’t hear anything else from Jester that night. But Yasha does, after long hours of waiting, hear something else. A vague rustling behind the far wall. At first she thinks it must be another hallucination, another trick of the darkness. But no, there’s one noise, and then another: movements that track in a direction, unlike the imagined creatures that skittered from one edge of the room to the other in an instant.

Yasha freezes, unsure whether to lay back down and pretend to sleep or to investigate. The noises don’t stop as she ponders, and she begins to pick out more distinct sounds: metal creaking, fabric dragging against stone. The need to _know_ wins out over fear. Yasha creeps to the wall and places her ear against the stone.

Whatever is on the other side of the wall, real or imagined, it _sounds_ like a person. Each creak is accompanied by small, wounded noises that no animal could make.

If it’s one of the guards, she can’t risk calling out. They’ll know that Yeza’s potion didn’t take and punish him for it, or force him to concoct something that will take her out for good. But if it isn’t a guard, then this is another person trapped like her, alone. Wondering if there’s a world outside the darkness. Left long enough on her own, she would have sold her soul for a friendly voice.

Some things are worth the risk.

“Hello?” she calls, not loud enough. “Hello? Who’s there?” Yasha risks a little more volume and the person on the other side of the wall responds with abrupt silence. Yasha waits, hoping she hasn’t just doomed herself and Yeza both.

“...Yasha?”

It’s been weeks, or what she knows now to be weeks, which is perhaps why she finds it suddenly so difficult to remain standing. Yasha sinks to her knees, her hand and her forehead pressed to the wall as she breathes in and out.

“Fjord? Is that you?” she says as she finally finds her voice again. “Fjord?”

“It’s me.” Fjord’s drawl hitches between words. Yasha winces at the barely concealed pain in his voice.

“How are you here?” she says, then, “You’re injured.”

“I’ll mend,” comes the reply. “I, uh. Made trouble. They threw me down here.” 

Just like it was with Yeza in the begining, Yasha is left with only her imagination to fill in the details, wondering what state Fjord is in.  He’s hurt, but she can’t tell how badly. She’s not sure he’ll answer honestly if she asks. 

“You said they threw you _down_ here. Do you know where here is? All I’ve seen are lots of corridors.” And this cell. And a strange room with stone steps and wooden boxes. And chains. But time for that later.

Fjord’s response comes at the end of another series of rustles, like he’s readjusting his position - sitting up, maybe? More pained hisses as well, and Yasha presses herself closer to the wall.

“Yeah. We’re underneath the main Academy building. Came down straight through a door in the Headmistress’s office, just like Caleb told us.”

Yasha’s brow furrows. “They didn’t knock you out before bringing you here?” 

“...Nope. Just, um, threw me in this cell. Not very gently.” 

“I’m glad you’re here, Fjord,” she says. He chuckles, even though it sounds as though it sounds like he’s cracking a rib to do it, and Yasha can’t help but relish the sound.

“Can’t say I feel the same,” he says, “but it’s real good to see you too. Hear you. Whatever.”

“I found Yeza,” she blurts out. 

“What? You- what? Where?” 

“He’s nearby. I… don’t know how to explain it, exactly.” She tries her best. Speaks of the room where they’re kept, that only has doors sometimes. Tells him the daily routine. Explains the blood Yeza takes on DeRogna’s orders, and the second dodecahedron in its lead box. All this, in less than five minutes. She thinks she should have more to tell, but so much of her last two weeks has been spent blind or asleep, or both. She’s far more interested to find out what’s been going on outside her little world.

“Well, Beau got herself kicked out on day one.” Yasha’s lips quirk into a smile. She can just picture it. “And Caleb and Jester got picked off right away to be apprentices, to Ikithon and some Platinum Dragon priest.” A pause. “Don’t think they knew what to do with Caduceus, honestly, so they kind of just let him roam around.” Yasha’s smile widens. That too she can picture quite clearly.

“What about you?” she asks.

Another pause. “Oh. Just some basic training stuff.”

Yasha would not call herself particularly good at reading people, but she’s learned to listen in the intervals over these past weeks. At first, all she knew of Yeza the sounds of his movement, his breath, his pauses and exhales. It became a language all its own, one she understands enough of now to know Fjord’s not telling her the whole truth. But she doesn’t want to pry. There are many things she hasn’t told him. Hasn’t told anyone. (With Yeza’s help, she’s been learning to try.)

“Have you heard from J-?” she starts to ask, but the heavy fall of footsteps interrupts her question. Yasha darts back to the bed. On the other side of the wall, she hears Fjord do the same, but it’s only her door that opens, seconds after she manages to pull the blanket back over herself.

As the guards haul her artfully limp body out of the cell, she sneaks one eye open. There - she hadn’t looked back when she ran the last time, but there’s another cell beside hers. That must be where they’re keeping Fjord. She sneaks glances at every opportunity that seems safe. A rush of heat - the corridor to the strange room, the one with the steps and boxes. And stairs - Fjord _did_ say they were below the Academy. How far below? She counts the steps more carefully this time. Five flights, at least. Maybe more. Then two doors, the second of which leads into Yeza’s room.

Once she’s strapped to the chair, in the last seconds before the blindfold comes down, Yasha manages to sneak one final glance, just quick enough to catch the disappearing door. It rests open just a crack, revealing a sliver of polished wooden floor and what might be the leg of some piece of furniture. A chair, maybe, or a desk? 

Yeza has the blindfold and gag off as quick as his smaller fingers allow. Even so, by the time she has her sight back, the door is gone. “Did Jester call again?” he asks eagerly. Yasha shakes her head. 

“No, but the guards brought down another of our group. Fjord.”

“Oh,” Yeza says. “Ok.” Yasha can tell the name isn’t the one he wanted to hear, means next to nothing to him, but he regroups quickly, and starts to tap his chin in thought. “Another Xhorhasian? I don’t see what use two sources of blood would be-”

He nervously prattles about the differences in protein composition between distinct blood samples, and Yasha lets him, only half-listening as her own dark thoughts begin to swirl to the surface.

What _did_ they mean to do with Fjord? 

Dread spikes as Yasha thinks back on her first few days in that dark cell: the questions Ikithon asked, the hurt that followed. Fjord is injured, and even if he wasn’t, he can’t stand up to pain the way she can. Not many could. 

And he is there, with no one to guard him from Ikithon’s knife. 

And she is here. Tied to this chair. Helpless.

The day passes at a snail’s crawl, and by the time the guards return for her she’s close to sick with worry. It’s a wonder the sleeping draught takes at all, but it does, and the moment she awakes Yasha scrambles to the wall. “Fjord?”

No sound.

“Fjord?” she calls again.

“I’m here.”

His voice is more even now. No tremors of pain, no hoarseness. He’s alright. He’s fine.

(She isn’t alone again.)

“Did anyone come for you while I was gone?”

“Nobody.”

Yasha breaths out. “Good.”

They sit there in silence for a while, broken only by the dull rasp of Fjord’s armor against the wall. Yasha pictures her body melding through it, her hand sinking past the stone and touching his shoulder. She’d thought she’d lost the need for contact. Not since Zuala has she craved it, not since Molly has she missed it. Touch has always meant pain. She didn’t need it to mean more. She didn’t want it to.

“You know, when I was a kid, I always wanted my own room,” Fjord says softly, unprompted. Yasha understands what he means, more than he probably realizes. 

(She thinks that next time that Jester asks her to share the bed, she won’t refuse.)

“It isn’t so bad, after a while. The darkness.”

Fjord laughs again, a little torn, a little damaged. “Yeah. I guess not.”

Her knees are aching, but Yasha can’t bring herself to move away so she sits and lays her back against the wall instead. If she can’t reach Fjord, she can at least stay nearby. 

Eventually, the metal of Fjord’s bed creaks, more loudly than any time before. Yasha raises her head, trained for any sounds of footsteps from the corridor, but it’s Fjord’s voice that breaks the silence.

“...You got out, huh? That’s… that’s really great. Shouldn’t have doubted you. Shouldn’t… yeah. I’m glad you’re safe.” Yasha has never heard Fjord’s voice break like this, but it does, like glass under a stone, quieter with every word. “I… Jester, I think I really messed up.” 

Yasha holds her breath, caught between excitement and concern as they both wait to see if Jester will respond.

 _Why is Fjord down here?_ she thinks again. _What happened to him?_

Finally, Fjord speaks again. “I pissed her off. I couldn’t… do what she wanted me to- What she wanted.” Fjord takes a long breath. Yasha can almost hear him gathering himself, locking away whatever feelings managed to slip out where she and Jester can’t see. “Bright side? I found Yasha. We’re right below Tross’s office.”

***

“One more.”

“Are you certain? You’ve already sent quite a few.”

“I’m sure.” Jester holds up her fingers one more time. “You and Yasha are together? That’s great! We’re all finding each other. Hang on for just a bit, I’m making a plan. Talk more soon.”

***

“Ok. Talk more soon. Stay safe. I- just. Stay safe. That’s all.”

Fjord falls silent for long enough that Yasha finally lets herself speak. “Jester?”

“Yup,” Fjord says. “I guess she’s making a plan, now that we can all talk together again.”

“Jester’s plans are always… unique.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“She usually pulls through alright, though. I trust her.”

“Me too.”

“Fjord?”

“Yeah, Yasha?”

“Sometimes you have to fight back. Even if it costs you everything. Sometimes you _have_ to.”

“...Yasha?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re here too.”

***

That was… not the way Jester was expecting her conversation with Fjord to go. She’s only been gone a _day_ . How could things have shifted so much? Fjord’s with _Yasha_ now, apparently, and not Caduceus? And who’s the _she_ Fjord pissed off? Tross? That elf lady he’s been training with? Both?

“I need paper,” she mutters, grabbing her sketchbook out of her little bag. She flips past the spot where Caleb tore out his little note to Fjord, past the sketches of Bahamut’s suspended statue that she has every intention of burning the moment they get out of here, until she finds an empty page. Jester draws a line straight down the middle, and in the left column she writes a list of names: Fjord, Yasha, Caduceus, Caleb, Beau, Nott, Yeza. Beside Fjord’s name she writes ‘under Tross’s office?’, and the same beside Yasha’s. 

She fills in what she can. Caleb’s row acquires the label ‘ikithon’, along with a scowling face adorned by pointy horns. Beside Yeza, she writes ‘with yasha? but not fjord??? maybe???????’. By Beau and Nott, she just puts ‘out’.

Jester chews on the end of her coloured pencil. So she knows where everyone is, sort of. Beneath the list of names, she writes ‘how we escape:’, with a lot of blank space after it. “See,” she says, showing the book to the Traveler. “It’s like a game. We just have to figure out where the exit is, then make sure all the pieces can get there!”

“That’s very clever,” the Traveler says. “Though your game seems to be missing a piece.” He taps a finger below Yeza’s name. Oh.

“I’ll figure myself out last,” Jester hedges. “I have lots of time. Kirn said that he won’t take me away until I’m ready, so it’s really better if we focus on everyone else.” _Speaking of._ “If Fjord isn’t with Caduceus, I’d better try him.”

“We’ll come back to this,” the Traveler sighs, but takes her hands again. “Whenever you’re ready.”

***

As far as Caduceus can tell, the plants told him true - there really is no one left in the sanctuary. He walks the perimeter of the temple, searching for an unlocked entrance he might have missed. He suspects that he’s too late to make Jester’s graduation, but if she’s still below, he can at least bid her farewell before she goes. Give her the Wildmother’s blessing, or a hug to soothe the lonely departure. 

The gathering evening is punctuated by occasional trills of birdsong, an backdrop absent from the other sections of the Academy grounds. Most creatures know better than to roost in branches that bear no fruit. The day sparrows have flown away from their stone perches to make nests in greener soil, and all that remains are the nightingales. They keep their melodious watch from the rafters of the temple, guarding the last smudge of life in a forest of dead things. To Caduceus, it seems a sad place to linger, but perhaps for them, that little patch of good earth is enough. After all, he had thought the same of the Blooming Grove for a long while. 

(If the corruption had not crept so close, if the walls had not closed in so tight, maybe he would be there still: convincing himself year by year that he stayed because he loved his home, and not because he was too afraid to leave it.)

There are no more doors to the temple other than the entrance, but he pauses in his search as another sound catches his ear - a plaintive cry, lower than a nightingale’s song but no less mournful. It comes from the thicket of trees along the border of living and dead plants, where the undergrowth blends seamlessly between illusionary and real. Caduceus follows the noise, keeping an ear cocked towards the temple door in case either of the people below decide to ascend.

Huddled beneath a birch tree he finds an elvish boy, not yet grown. He hushes as he notices Caduceus’s approach and scrambles to his feet, brushing off the dirt from his silver vestments as he stands. His robes are too long for his short frame and tangle around his feet, but he manages to sink into a half bow with a modicum of grace. 

“Hello,” Caduceus greets him. “Did you come from the temple?” Caduceus keeps his voice quiet. He doesn’t comment on the tear tracks that still stain the boy’s cheeks, or the smears of dirt that betray how he’s tried to brush them away.

The boy clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I know I’m past curfew.” He keeps his eyes lowered, fixed on Caduceus’s feet. “I’ll go inside now.”

“Why don’t we stay out here and talk a moment? If you have time, of course.” The boy’s eyes dart up, alert with suspicion, but they widen as he takes in the sight of furry skin and pink hair.

“You’re Caduceus,” he breathes, surprised but no longer suspicious. Caduceus smiles, equally as startled that the mysterious boy knows his name, but a little better at hiding it.

“I am. And you are?”

“Andras,” the boy answers readily. “Jester told me to look for you.”

“Did she?” Caduceus muses. “That’s nice. I’m sure she wanted me to find you too then. Do you know where Jester is?”

Andras scuffs his foot into the soil. “She graduated tonight. She’s gone.” Another tear threatens to fall, but the boy sniffs and turns his face away, and when he looks back at Caduceus his eyes are dry. “You didn’t know?”

“No, I did,” Caduceus says slowly. So was Jester _not_ one the two he sensed below the temple? “She’s already left?”

Andras nods. “Her and Master Kirn. They set off for Bladegarden tonight.” 

On the surface, there’s nothing amiss with Andras’s statement. That _is_ what Jester told them would happen, more or less. And he had been later in arriving than he’d hoped, so it makes sense that they could have already moved on. But something about the circumstances - the empty temple, the crying boy, Jester gone without saying goodbye - leaves him ill at ease.

“Alright. That makes sense,” he says, though he’s not sure yet that it does.

Fjord. He needs to talk to Fjord. There’s something here he’s missing, and if Fjord made it to the graduation ceremony, he probably knows the answer. Still, he hates to leave a child wandering in the dark without any guidance at all. “I have to go now, Andras, but I think we may have more to talk about later on. How do I find you again?”

“The temple,” Andras supplies. “I’m there every day.”

“Good. Then I’ll probably see you there soon.” 

“Wait!” Andras cries. Caduceus turns back. “How do I find you?” He thinks a moment. Their shared bedroom has a number, but he can’t remember it off the top of his head. And none of them really spend much time there anyway.

“The library,” he decides. “Ask for me there, if I’m not out in the grounds.”

“Ok. Yeah. I will.” 

Caduceus leaves behind the dark-eyed boy and heads back to the main building. 

 _Andras_. Jester’s friend. Good to know.

There’s no light under the crack of their bedroom door, but since he and Jester are the only ones who can light the little sconces, he’s not surprised by the darkness. (Fjord tried once, when he thought the other two wasn’t looking. Caduceus was gracious enough not to comment on the lack of flame, or the way Fjord pressed his nails into his palm after the failure, like he didn’t want either of them to see that he’d lifted his hand.) 

Caduceus opens the door and finds the room empty. Now, _that’s_ odd. Fjord usually returns after Caduceus, but it’s late at night by now. Jester’s graduation ceremony is long over. Another coil of unease settles in his stomach. 

He sits on the edge of one of his beds. 

The night passes. 

Fjord never comes back.

Footsteps pace in the hallway beyond the door, signalling the first travelers of morning, and Fjord’s bed is still untouched, and Caduceus hasn’t slept more than a wink. He stands and walks to the other side of the room. Places a hand where Beau’s head once laid. 

Where Caleb’s head- 

Where Jester’s-

He moves to Fjord’s bed and touches the pillow in the same manner. His chest tightens, the beginnings of panic curling into his mouth like seawater, choking the air from his lungs. 

_(The trees die, one by one, and you are the only one left who remembers their names.)_

There must be a reason for Fjord’s absence. Caduceus scours the room for a note, for a hint, for _anything_ that might indicate where he went. He rushes to the meal hall, asks sleepy-eyed children if they’ve seen a man with green skin and dark hair. He searches for the woman who was Ikithon’s companion, who’d taken Fjord under her wing. He searches the whole morning away, but when at last he finds someone who knows who he’s talking about they tell him that Master Mirel was sent out today on assignment, that they don’t know when she’ll return. 

He turns in circles as people pass - students and teachers who all ignore him, accustomed to having a  firbolg in their midst by now - and he is not by himself, but he is _lonely_. He feels the loss of both Fjord and Jester with a keenness that’s different than what he felt for the solemn passing of his family. That was a slow decay, the pain of it softened by the passage of years. This is an uprooting, violent and unforeseen, and he did not realize until this moment what being alone again would mean.

He’s halfway to the Temple of Bahamut, hoping to find Andras there and ask him what he knows, when the answer hits him. Caduceus slaps his hand over his eyes at his own foolishness, then lifts the other hand and traces the shape of familiar glyphs. A moment later, he has it: a ping, faint but present. Fjord’s armour is still somewhere within the Academy. It’s too far off to trace the exact location, other than that it seems to be below the first floor, but it’s there. 

Sighing both from relief and at his own empty head, he turns back towards the direction of the ping, but pauses. There’s another confirmation he could try… just to be sure. He casts the spell again and the first ping vanishes, replaced with a second chime. This one is far closer by, directly beneath the Temple of Bahamut. Jester is still here too, which only confirms Caduceus’s suspicions: something isn’t as it seems. Something didn’t go according to plan, and now both Jester and Fjord are below ground, though in opposite directions. 

On his final casting, he chooses something of Yasha’s - an earring, one of the ones she never removes - but the spell dies in the air, unable to find its target. Disappointing, but at least this means Jester’s weeks of worry weren’t entirely preventable.

Caduceus follows Fjord’s armor first. He traces the ping to a spot near the Academy’s entrance before the trail goes cold. The source of the ping is many levels deeper that the main floor, and he has no idea how to get down farther than the kitchen. The trick he used to enter the research wing won’t work here - he can only shift a few feet of stone at a time. It would take weeks to hollow out a passage to where Fjord is. 

Eventually, he’s forced to concede defeat, and heads back towards Bahamut’s temple when the day is all but done. It’s along that path that he hears it: a voice not gone long, yet already sorely missed. 

**_Hey, Caduceus! Sorry I missed you last night. Uh, good news! I have my messages back! ...I think Fjord got into some trouble though. Do you-_ **

He’s never gotten a message from Jester before. It tickles the back of his skull as the words trickle in. Remembering only after a few seconds that he’s allowed to speak back, he says, “Ah, I think you’re right. He didn’t come back to the room last night. I’m not sure where he went exactly… what happened with the graduation? Are you alright? You sound...” _stressed_ “tired.”

Her voice is indeed strained. He closes his eyes and pictures the face that would have made it - the tight smile, the eyes bright with an emotion that isn’t quite the carefree joy she’s trying to portray. 

**_Oh, you know, I’m ok. Uh. Graduation hit a few little snags. Master Kirn? Not such a nice guy after all. Kind of a dick, actually-_ **

That response doesn’t exactly alleviate Caduceus’s concerns, but Jester sends another before he has a chance to ask any followup questions.

**_I’m stuck below the temple. But I’m working on a plan. I’m going to try Caleb next. Fjord’s with Yasha. ...Maybe you could find them?_ **

Alright. A plan. That’s something. And he’s already found Fjord, so that’s a step in the right direction.

Wait.

Fjord’s with _Yasha?_

Caduceus scrubs his hands over his eyes. He’s never been more confused in his life.

***

Jester adds a checkmark beside Caduceus’s name. “So I remember that I told him stuff,” she explains to the Traveler. He smiles at her fondly. 

“Do you think you’ll forget?” 

“I think that I’ve got a _lot_ going on right now.” Jester claps her hands together. “Caleb next.” She quiets the part of her mind that’s reminds her that they haven’t seen Caleb at all since the first night, and that worries her message won’t get a response. Being nervous about something is never a good enough reason not to do it. And besides, she has to try him, because if there’s anyone who’ll be able to help her plan, it’s Caleb. If there’s a way around this school’s defences, he’ll know it, or know who knows it.

“Just a little reminder,” the Traveler says, “that you may find yourself tired again soon.”

“How many more messages do I have?” 

“Less than half what you’ve sent so far.”

“Oh, that’s ok then,” Jester says, waving her hand. “We’ve got lots of time, right? Kirn said that I can have as much as I need to rest before we go anywhere. So if it takes a couple days of messaging to figure everything out, then that’s ok.” And thank the stars too, because she gets the feeling whatever plan they come up with, they’ll need more than a handful of messages to get it across to the others.

“I trust your judgement, Jester.”

“Good. I’m very trustworthy.”

Jester closes her eyes and focuses on Caleb’s wan, cleanshaven face.

***

The walk from the trial hall back to the Academy is silent. Ikithon doesn’t attempt to initiate conversation, and Caleb lags two paces behind. He has to remind his legs at regular intervals that they’re meant to be moving. His head is too heavy to bear Bren’s mask, so he slips back into Molly’s, back into being empty. 

He _is_ empty. He wants to be empty. Wants to be nothing at all.

Beau is gone, and she won’t be coming back. He sent her away.

Just like Nott. 

Like Nott.

Like-

“Come along, Bren.” 

The cloak that felt so comforting this morning chokes him now. He draws it from his shoulders, folds it carefully over one arm. 

The sleeves of his robes are soaked in blood.

“Bren?”

He blinks. The blood becomes the reflection of the sunset: red-sheened, liquid-slick. The cloak falls to the ground.

“Bren?” Someone else picks up the cloak. He watches their hand. The ground.

His arms.

Glass shards.

Blood.

“Bren.”

“Caleb,” he corrects.

“Bren.”

“Bren,” he accepts.

“Stay with me.”

There’s nowhere else to go.

He sees the ground, hands, and then nothing more.

\--- 

The meadow below his cheek is red, not blue. Not soft. No blankets. He’s on a couch, in a room that isn’t his. There’s a bed, a nightstand, bookshelves, a rug, a mirror, an armoire. Glass panes.

He’s alone.

Raised voices past the doorway. He tears his eyes away from the reflection in the glass. Sits up. His cloak is gone. His robes are rumpled. His feet are dust-stained. Bren cares. Molly doesn’t. Caleb...

Stands. Walks to the door. It isn’t locked. Beyond it is a hallway. He’s been here before. The scent of soap, wafting from the door to his right. The bathing chamber. Cuts on his arms. Blood in the water. 

He cross towards the door that he knows will lead him to Ikithon’s office, where the voices pierce through the wood. He listens as they fight. They don’t hear him.

“-not think to ascertain the identity of this girl before changing her permanently?” Ikithon is angry. Anger is what he knows from this man. Anger is what he should have felt from him all along. It’s more  familiar than kindness. More accustomed. More _pure_. 

Caleb starts to come back to himself.

“It doesn’t matter who she is.” The other voice is deep, rough like gravel, unmoved by Ikithon’s fury. “I will not give her up.”

The charge before lightning, a burnt scent on the air, magic gathering to a fine-tipped spear. The threat isn’t directed towards Caleb, but he flinches all the same. “You will do as I say, or I will see to it that neither you nor she will live to disgrace this Academy again.”

He presses against the door until it opens a crack, just far enough to peek out. Ikithon stands opposite a regal dragonborn in white robes, taller than Ikithon by a handspan. The two stare each other down with murderous intensity, and Caleb isn’t certain now who’s magic he’s sensing, only that its release will surely end in death for the opposing party. The silent battle of wills goes on for what feels like hours, a combined force that seems to transcend the confines of the office. 

Eventually, the dragonborn steps back, cedes ground. Caleb lets out a breath. “Two days,” he says. “Give me two days, and we will be gone, so far that none will find us.”

“Then go, before I change my mind.”

He steps back, out of eyeline of the retreating figure. Ikithon stands over his desk, his fingers arched into clawed fortresses on the wood, collecting himself. Caleb does the same.

He hasn’t faded like this in months. It doesn’t happen, unless… but there’s no ash between his fingers, no scorch marks on his sleeves. He hasn’t killed anyone. 

(It still feels like there’s blood on his hands.)

Maybe he’s finally, truly losing his mind.

“You can come in, Bren,” Ikithon says. Caleb steps through the door and closes it, unsurprised that Ikithon knew he was there. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

“I am.”

Ikithon regards him with a gaze that’s colder than he’s known in a long while. “You were _not_ …” 

“Feeling well,” Caleb finishes. “I do feel better now. But I think would like to sleep a little more.” He heads to the door, eager to be back in his own room. Ikithon calls out to him.

“You did well today. I’m proud of you.” Ikithon lets the words hang and Caleb flushes, frozen by the door, uncertain what to do with the praise. “We’ve found each other again at a precarious time, but it is a vital one. I see a turning point in this war approaching very soon. When it arrives, I am glad to know you will be at my side.”

 _On_ , Caleb’s mind corrects. _‘_ On _my side’._

“Well,” he says, “Goodnight.” Caleb shuts the door.

The passage back to his room is long, and he’s still fighting the last vestiges of his blackout when a bright sound, twinkling like bells, interrupts the begins of his renewed self-recrimination. It roots him to the spot, caught in the unexpected gravity of the voice, and what the voice means.

**_Hi, Caleb! Just wanted to let you know that we haven’t forgotten you. I just couldn’t message until now. But we’re totally here and I-_ **

He doesn’t even get a chance to choke out a single word before-

**_Shit, sorry. Got cut off. Anyway, I’m working on a plan to get us out of here. Any suggestions? Since you’re so smart, you know?_ **

Casting about wildly for any listeners, he ducks into the space between a wall and a window and tries to calm himself enough to talk. A storm of hopelessly uncontrollable feeling buffets through him, and he can’t bring himself to be cautious like he knows he should, can’t bring himself to keep silent, ignore her dangerous voice and stay safe because he is _drowning_. He will not survive another moment on his own.

“ _Jester_. Hold on,” he mutters, “Just- please, wait. I need to-” There are still people in the hallways. Not many, but he can hear them moving around in passages to the right and left. Maybe none of them would report him to Ikithon, but he can’t possibly trust that to be true. “-message me again in five minutes.” There is so much more he wants to say, and not enough words to say it, so it doesn’t try.

The path back to his room passes in a blur of hasty steps, of pushing past the few nighttime wanderers who still haunt the halls. Caleb shuts the door behind him and falls back against it, clutching his head in his hands. 

What if she doesn’t respond back-

What if that was her last spell-

What-

**_Ok, Caleb! It’s been five minutes! Can you talk now? I could really use your help. Oh, also, Beau and Nott and Fjord and Caduceus-_ **

“Jester, I-” He winces. There are only so many words he can afford to waste, and none of them should be spent on sentimentality. Right then. Two so far. Twenty-three more. “I have been working on a way, an escape route. But there are many things that must go right first. Things I need.” Things that he does not even know are possible. 

**_Like, spell stuff? Maybe we can help you get those things? I don’t know what you need, but Caduceus could try and find it._ **

He sincerely doubts Caduceus is the right one for the job that needs doing, but he doesn’t have enough words to contradict Jester. He barely has the words to get his request across.

“Fifty gold of arcanist’s chalk, infused with crushed gems. And everyone in a room, _together_.” He pauses, considering how best to phrase his last sentence.. “Academy stores may have such chalk, but they are warded.” Caleb tries to inject as heavy a warning into his tone as he can muster. Stealing from the school’s stores would be next to impossible for anyone who is not a Master. But what other choice do they have? 

He had thought he might attempt it himself, since at least he can dispel the weakest of the wards. Ikithon might even be persuaded to show him the way, if he came to trust Caleb enough. But it is a time sensitive thing. The moment the supplies are taken, they all must be ready to leave. He’s not so naive to think they’d be able to steal and still get away clean. 

He’s not so naive to think that if they try to go together, they’ll get away at all. 

There’s another thought: that he could go, without waiting for the others. If he breaks into the stores on his own, he could be cautious. If he moved quickly enough, he could be gone before any alarms sounded. If he only worried for himself, this crazy plan might even have a hope at succeeding. 

After all, Beau asked for too much. She could have saved herself. She was home free. And she stayed. And look what it got her. Nothing. No Fjord. No Caduceus. No Yasha. No Yeza. No Jester.

He thinks he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t run. Not like this. 

But he also thinks, in his darkest moments, that he _should_.

***

Arcanist’s chalk. Jester scribbles down exactly what Caleb said, word for word, before she can forget. His spells are always so fiddly, so it pays to be exact. She gears up to send Caleb one more message, just to make sure she got the details right, but the Traveler holds up his hand before she can begin casting.

“This is your last message of the day, Jester. Use it wisely.”

He’s right, of course. The magic in her chest is wearing thin, her hands shaking not only from emotions now.

Jester looks down at her list. 

Fjord, Yasha, Caduceus, Caleb, Beau, Nott, Yeza. 

Caleb needs special chalk. Fjord and Yasha can’t help with that. Yeza might, under better circumstances, but she doubts a prisoner has access to lots of crushed gems. Caduceus is still a possibility, but if she’s being honest, he wouldn’t know what to look for. None of them would, really, besides Caleb, or even where to start. And the word _warded_ gives her more pause than it might have two weeks ago. Caduceus can’t heal himself if he’s unconscious. 

“Beau,” she decides. “One more to Beau.”

Beau’s in the city, where you can go to a store and ask Rexxentrum’s version of Pumat Sol to fetch what you need. And Beau knows how to smuggle stuff. So maybe-

“Hey, so, Caleb needs something called arcanist’s chalk to get us out of here. With infused gems? Do you know what that is? Or where?”

The response takes longer to come in than the first time, and Beau’s voice sounds exactly as gruff as it always does when Jester shakes her awake in the mornings.

 ** _Yeah, I think we can get that to you._** There’s a very, very long pause, so long Jester doesn’t think Beau’s planning on adding more. **_I’m not sure we can trust Caleb right now, Jess. That… that_** **fucker** ** _got in his head._**

Without thinking, she goes to channel the spell again, but the Traveler takes her hands and presses them down to her lap. “That’s the end of it, Jester.” 

“She said I can’t trust Caleb.”

“I heard. What will you do?”

How can she not trust Caleb? He’s… he’s _Caleb_ . They have to trust each other. They _have_ to. They can’t trust anyone else. 

“Well,” she says weakly, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “I guess I’ll message them both again tomorrow. We’ve got time.” She knows she keeps saying it, but it’s the only thing that’s keeping her from sinking into despair over how she’s possibly supposed to coordinate an escape attempt on her own, with nothing but twenty-five word messages at her disposal. At least, she can spread it out. At least-

“Someone’s coming.” The Traveler’s hands abruptly vanish, leaving hers cold and empty. Jester startles, only remembering at the last second that she’s meant to be asleep.

“Jester.” Kirn’s hand comes down heavy on her shoulder and shakes her. She makes a show of yawning, probably a poor one, but he’s not really focused on her. Apparently, not focused on much of anything, because he forgets to cast the Calm Emotions spell on her, leaving her with every ounce of anxiety his presence warrants. “I’m sorry to wake you. I know you hoped to sleep a little longer.”

“What time is it?” she asks, rubbing at eyes that aren’t even a litte bit sleep-fogged. She’s more wide awake than she’s ever been.

“It’s just past midnight.” He sits on the couch beside her. Jester pulls her legs up to her chest so they aren’t so close to his side. “We need to talk, Jester.”

“What’s going on?” 

“Do not be concerned,” he says, which is exactly what people say before they deliver concerning news. “Merely a change in schedule. The... Cadre wishes us to return more quickly than I anticipated. You may not be ready to go quite yet, but I fear my hand has been forced.”

Jester’s heart flutters. “How long?” she whispers. “Till we go? How long?”

“A few days is all I could negotiate. We leave the night after next.”

“What?”

“You must try to rest as much as you can between then and now, Jester, for it will not be an easy journey. I can get us close to where the Cadre reside, but there is a long stretch of wilderness between the nearest temple and the mountains we seek.”

Jester gulps. “And those mountains. They’re near Rexxentrum, right?”

He looks at her strangely, like this is information she should already know. “The Cadre resides in Issylra.”

Her stomach drops. “That’s another continent,” she says faintly. 

“Most of the journey will be over in an instant, you need not worry about the distance. I will be with you, every step of the way.”

“Two days,” she repeats. “That’s all?”

“That’s all, Jester. I’m sorry.”

Two days, and then she’ll be on another continent, with no money or friends or means to get back to her to her mother.

Two days, and it won’t matter if they get the chalk or not. At least, it won’t matter for her.

Two days is all they have.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find [Hallow](https://roll20.net/compendium/dnd5e/Hallow) is a very interesting spell, and spent far too long over the last month pondering how exactly its mechanics would translate to a fictional narrative. What does it really mean to infuse an area with holy power? More specifically, what does it mean in the context of Matt's specific worldbuilding around Exandrian deities? Fascinating stuff.


	18. Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beau and Nott make a move.

It becomes a game of numbers.

Twelve messages. Two days. Twenty-four chances.

Two people on the outside, two people on the inside. Four people trapped, three of them together. Three of them connected.

And her.

And her.

Her pencil rests above the list of names - above the winding arrows, the scratched-out notes, the discarded ideas - and above the spot beside ‘Jester’, still blank.

***

“Here, catch.”

Beau snatches the little sack from midair with involuntary grace, staring dumbly at the brown burlap clutched in her outstretched hand for a few bewildered seconds before searching for the origin of the toss. 

Orana quirks an eyebrow as she strides forward, swiftly closing the few feet would have taken to, you know, just _hand_ the thing to Beau. “Nice reflexes.” Beau glares, but doesn’t protest. Instead, she pulls the sack open and finds at the bottom a tarnished copper tin. She draws it out and flips the lid back to reveal five thin sticks of chalk, nestled in a protective bed of velvet. Their luminescent residue coats the interior of the tin, shimmering with the same hues of emerald and ruby and sapphire as the chalk itself. “That look about right to you?”

Beau hefts the container in her palm, feeling the weight. She has no idea what arcanist’s chalk looks like, but it _feels_ expensive, which means it’s probably the right shit. Caleb never works with anything cheap. “Yeah. I think we’re good.”

Orana joins her at the wall, choosing a spot to lean a few feet to Beau’s right. From that vantage, they can both observe the makeshift training room and the sparring matches that occupy most of its generous floor space. 

This room is the farthest one back in the hideout. At least, it’s the farthest back that Beau’s _found_ \- she hasn’t had much time to snoop in her one-day sojourn. The secluded spot gives trainees the freedom to let out as many grunts and curses as they like, without fearing the sound might slip through the grated skylights of the outermost rooms. Today, groups of two or three fight with wooden practice blades and varying degrees of competence, but even the most capable of the bunch are eclipsed by the pair of fighters in the center ring.

Nott’s long hair, pulled back into a messy braid, fans in an arc as she dodges beneath Leon’s polished blade. The two train with steel, not wood - any slip or misstep could end in blood, and Beau winces as Nott just barely parries his second strike but loses her footing in the effort. She manages to tuck into a roll on the descent, sliding between Leon’s legs and emerging in a spray of sand and whirling knives. The other trainees perform their own maneuvers distractedly, too focused on staying out Nott and Leon’s radius to properly concentrate. Beau doesn’t blame them. Stumbling into the middle of _that_ would be a bloodbath.

“I, uh,” Beau starts, keeping her eyes on Nott’s dusty cloak and carefully _not_ on Orana. “Just wanted to say. Seems like Nott fits in pretty well here. You guys took care of her, while all this was going down.” Beau swallows, hard. “Thanks.” It would be a pretty great world if just saying ‘thanks’ was enough, but it’s not. It never is. 

Leon drops to one knee, avoiding a slash to his thigh that would have severed an artery with an inch less clearance. Nott laughs in triumph before whizzing around to harry his other side. 

Orana snorts. “Took care of her, huh?” Beau shrugs sheepishly. Yeah, point taken. “She’s a great fighter. We’re happy to have her in our number.”

_Happy to have her in our number._

_To_ have _._

Is she only imagining the obscured meaning in Orana’s words? It could be paranoia - Beau’s never been much for half-full glasses - but can you really call it that if half the bad shit you predict keeps coming true? It’s hard to take Orana’s phrasing as anything other than a threat, implied or not. After all, a big part of the reason Beau always steered clear of the larger guilds was to avoid precisely the situation they’re now in. Sure, most of the crime syndicates are all too happy to recruit new talent - to equip them, train them, protect them - but it’s the letting them _leave_ that’s the sticking point. She’s even heard of groups in Tal’Dorei that brand their members: a mark of ownership as much as solidarity. Does she need to check Nott’s neck for burns? Does she even have the stomach to ask?

“Is Nott still going to be part of your _number_ , then, when all this is over?” Beau shakes the little tin for emphasis. “Or is this a one-and-done type of deal?”

Orana turns her head to Beau, her gaze keen and too much like Dairon’s incisive scowl for comfort. “I meant what I said yesterday. You help us get our people out, and we’re even.” Orana turns back to Nott, and Beau fights the urge to step between them, to cut Nott off from her considering look. “But if this goes well, and she wants to come back, the Sewn Teeth certainly wouldn’t turn her away.”

This is a lesson Beau should have learned by now: it’s stupid to needle a tenuous ally. It’s safer to leave things ambiguous, so at least if they have to renege it’ll be on ill-defined terms. But she can’t help i. She can’t help her idiotic, compulsive need to belabor every point. Her father hated that part of her, and her teachers too - nobody likes an argumentative child. Nobody likes a girl who can’t keep her mouth shut. And here she is, about to open it again. 

(She tried to explain, once. She didn’t ask the questions to start a fight. She just wanted to _understand_.

He didn’t get it. Nobody ever did.)

“And if our people can’t do it? If we can’t find this ‘Avery’?”

Across the room, Leon has somehow managed to get Nott down into the sand, his legs caging hers, his knife hovering scant inches from the shallow dip of her throat. “Surrender?”

“ _Never_ ,” Nott crows, grin wide and toothy and unafraid. Leon grins back and offers her a cautious hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Nott takes it, and lets him pull her to her feet. 

Orana lets the question hang in the air just long enough to convince Beau she’s not getting an answer. When the response does come, it’s quiet. Sombre, even. “Then we make some different calls.”

Beau winces. “That mean what it sounds like it means?”

Orana shifts onto one foot, then the other, her posture not as sure as her words, and Beau is only somewhat relieved to find she’s not the only one treading the tightrope here. “I’m not in the business of blackmail. Or… I don’t want to be. But this is the safety of _hundreds_ of people on the line. We need to send a message to the Academy, once and for all, that we can protect our own. And we _need_ Avery back. He’s the reason why the Sewn Teeth exist, why we’ve lasted so long, through so much. So yeah.” Then, more firmly, “Yeah. I guess it does.”

Orana pinches the bridge of her nose, not trying to disguise her frustration at the conversation’s turn. Beau isn’t exactly joyous about the situation either, but… she gets it. At least, more than she would have two weeks ago. It’s not easy, huh, to be foisted with the sole responsibility for saving everyone you care about in the world? To be stuck on the outside, seeing only the ripples of your continued failure and not knowing how deep the lead weight has sunk, or if you’re strong enough to pull it back to shore? Beau still isn’t convinced the Nein will be able to make good on their promise, but she can’t begrudge Orana for doing whatever it takes to bring her friends home. 

Beau stares down at the tin in her hands. Five measly sticks of chalk: their only hope, trusted in the hands of strangers. And then there’s Beau, still stuck on the outside. Still _waiting_. 

She’s not waiting anymore.

“Fine,” Beau concedes. “But if this is how we’re doing this… then I’ve got a little change to the plan I’d like to suggest.”

“I’m listening.” 

“You said you had a way to smuggle this chalk into the Academy.”

“Right.”

“How would you feel about smuggling in some people too?”

Ignoring the fights for the first time, Orana regards Beau incredulously. “I thought the point of this operation was to get people _out_ , not put them back inside.”

“You’ve played Crick Queen’s Call, right?” Orana frowns at the non-sequitor, but gestures for Beau to continue. “Sometime, you’ve got to risk something extra to get the whole pot back.”

Orana crosses her arms. “That analogy only works if you’ve got something worth staking.”

Beau’s already bet every copper she had on talking her way out of this mess, and guess what? She lost everything. Her body’s about all she’s got left to give. Turns out, it’s about the only part of her worth anything at all.

“Look, I tried the sidelines approach. I tried to keep my hands clean, and you saw how well _that_ fucking turned out. I’m not a strategist. I’m sure as shit not a politician. I’m a fighter, like Nott: I get up close and I punch people until they do what I want. That’s how I make a difference. So if my friends are gonna be in danger, then up close is where I need to be.”

Orana doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she surveys the training room, eyes flickering between the remaining sparring groups. Beneath their black cloaks, some of the trainees are missing limbs. Some look as though they haven’t eaten a decent meal in months. Some are teenagers, barely old enough to be out on their own in the world. “It’s one thing to throw your own life onto the pile. But what about Nott? She’s part of your family. Would you risk hers too?”

“You ask her, she’s going to tell you the same thing. Neither of us are good at sitting still.”

Orana pushes off the wall, walking past Beau as she shakes her head. “What you’re asking... that’s a whole different thing than what we planned, you realize that, right? Sneaking a few pieces of chalk into the Academy, that’s easy. Getting _two people_ in?” Orana scoffs, turning on her heel and pacing back the other way.

“I’m not hearing a _no_.”

“That’s…” Orana runs a hand through her hair, then closes her eyes. “ _Fuck_.” She makes a quick gesture to one of the other Teeth, who holds up a hand to his sparring partner and runs over to Orana. She murmurs something into his ear and he darts out of the room. “How long do we have to try and make this happen?”

 _Holy shit, we’re actually doing this._ “Don’t know yet,” Beau says. “Still waiting on a time from Jester.”

Orana puts her fingers to her temples, rubbing them in slow circles. “I’m not making any promises.”

“Not asking you to.”

“And if things go wrong, we won’t be able to get you out. It’s a one-way ticket.”

“Yeah,” says Beau. “I know.”

Orana purses her lips, then slowly nods. “If you think you can… then fine. Let’s give it a shot. What have we got to lose?”

“Awesome.” Beau raises her fist and offers it to Orana. Orana returns the fist bump with rolled eyes, but Beau thinks she sees the hint of a begrudging smile in the creases. 

“For what it’s worth,” Beau offers, nodding to the rest of the room, “I know you think you need Avery back. And maybe you do. Maybe the Sewn Teeth can’t survive without their leader. But these people seem like they trust you, enough to follow your orders, and that’s not nothing. I’m just an outsider, but it kind of seems like you’re their leader too. Just… something to put in your back pocket. Chew on it later.”

Orana’s only acknowledgement is a low snort, but as Beau takes her leave and walks towards Nott, the gaze that follows her is thoughtful.

***

Jester’s next message comes over a late lunch, taken off in the little corner Nott’s started to think of as their own. It all goes down tomorrow, before sunset, while conditions are still in their favour. They’ve got the chalk? Great _._ They’re coming in to help? Wow, even better _._

Nott watches Beau’s expression carefully as Jester’s second message ends. “Got it. We’ll be waiting for your signal. …See you soon, Jess.”

“So?” Nott asks. “What’s the plan?”

“You and me are going to meet Caleb by the Headmistress’s office. Everyone moves at the same time.” Nott’s heartbeat trips into a nervous flutter. _Caleb_. She needs to ask Beau about Caleb. She’d rather swallow acid than actually do it. 

“And my husband? What about Yeza?”

“That’s down to us, I guess. We’re on team ‘find Yasha and Yeza’, since apparently they somehow ended up together?” Beau shrugs. “Don’t know how that happened. Maybe the Academy’s running low on torture chambers and they had to double up.” Nott flinches and Beau looks suitably abashed. “Sorry. Shit. Bad joke. Don’t worry, they’re probably just fine. No torture or… or anything.” 

Beau doesn’t get it. Nott isn’t worried. She’s _terrified_. 

“Does Yeza know I’m coming?”

“I assume so? Jester must have told them something. And he knew that Veth was coming with us, right?”

Nott stares down into the murky depths of her flask, then takes a swig. “Yeah. Right.” She takes another. “I only have six spells.”

Beau’s face scrunches in confusion. “I mean - yeah? That’s six more than me.”

The liquor burns on the way down. It’s a nice feeling. Distracting. “I might not have one to spare.”

“For what?”

“For when we find Yeza.”

Beau’s frown slowly shifts to dawning recognition, and then a sympathy that turns Nott’s stomach. “Oh.”

Nott shakes her head, shifting away from Beau. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll just… I won’t speak. I’ll just keep quiet, and you can call me Nott. We’ll make sure Caleb calls me Nott. It’ll be fine. We’ll deal with it after.”

“Nott…”

“Why don’t you think we can trust Caleb?” she spits. Words she didn’t mean to say, more antagonistic than she meant to say them. Beau’s head jerks as she tries to keep up with the sudden turn in conversation, and Nott feels a little safer, even as her heart pounds. This, at least, is a fear Beau might understand. She can’t begin to explain all the others.

“What?”

“You told Jester we couldn’t trust Caleb. I heard you.” It’s an accusation, spoken with enough certainty to drown out the lingering doubt. 

(Maybe it was just a dream. Maybe it was just her imagination. Maybe it was what the parts of her that still linger in bitterness had wanted to hear.)

But it’s Beau’s turn to flinch, and Nott knows then that she heard exactly right. 

“Look, Nott…” Beau says carefully.

“Don’t fucking _patronize_ me.” A couple of the Teeth glance up at the outburst and Nott lowers her voice to a hiss. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Beau looks up towards the ceiling, not at Nott. Nott’s fists curl a little tighter. “You’re not going to like it.”

“What, like I didn’t like the Cerberus Assembly taking my husband? Like I didn’t like watching all of you, just- just collapse?” She takes a handful of sand and flings it at the wall. It doesn’t help. She picks up another. “You could have been _dead_. And I handled that just fine. I kept going. So don’t treat me like I can’t handle this. I’m not a child, Beau. You don’t need to protect me.” 

Beau finally meets Nott’s eyes, their voices matching waver for waver. “Ikithon took him to the trial. He had him all dressed up like a… I don’t know. Like _him_. Like Ikithon. You don’t know, Nott. You didn’t see his eyes. Caleb… he wasn’t all there.”

But Nott _does_ know. She knows better than Beau. She was Caleb’s first best friend, long before she came along. Nott watched him burn a rabbit from the inside out so they could eat, so they could survive one more night in the woods. She watched him fade for days afterwards, his mind withering as fast as his gaunt frame, refusing to touch the charred meat despite everything she tried to disguise the smell. He was gone for so long Nott feared she’d be dragging a corpse back to town when at last the Crownsguard lost interest in their hunt for petty thieves.  

She drifts back from the memory to find Beau still talking. “He testified for their side. Got right up there in front of everyone and told the judge that Ikithon hadn’t done anything wrong. That he wanted to stay. That all of us wanted to stay.” 

“He was lying,” Nott says, even as the image fills her mind of Caleb all dressed up in robes like the ones the Felderwin mages wore, his eyes cold and unfamiliar. She’s sometimes caught glimpses of another person, in the moments before the flames find their target - someone she didn’t recognize, someone she didn’t want to know. But he always came back. He was always _Caleb_ again, in the end.

(Wasn’t he?)

“No shit, I know that,” Beau says. “We just… we don’t know what Ikithon’s been doing with him. I want to trust that he’s still playing both sides. I _want_ to, Nott. But we have to be practical. Are you willing to bet Jester’s life on Caleb _not_ being totally fucked up by two weeks alone with that asshole?”

“Yes,” she answers, without hesitation.

“Are you willing to bet Yeza’s?”

_Your people._

_Your people._

_Your people._

Nott opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. 

“Yes.” 

And she means it. She means it. She’s going to mean it, up until the very moment she’s forced to stop.

“Look,” Beau says. “I’m not saying that we do anything differently. Hell, this entire plan is fucked if we don’t have Caleb on our side. I’m just saying we should be careful. Keep an eye out. And whatever else we do, whatever crazy shit goes down, we’re going to keep him away from Ikithon.”

“Sure,” says Nott. “Easy-peasy. We’ve got this, right?” Beau doesn’t answer. She grabs Nott’s flask instead, and takes a good, long drag before shuddering and wiping her mouth. “Right,” Nott whispers.

“Come on,” Beau says. “Let’s tell Orana we’ve finally got a schedule.”

***

The two columns are gone now, torn to pieces and replaced by a fresh page. This one has two circles instead. 

There used to be names between the curved lines, but they’ve all been scratched out. Six of those names have been moved to the left-hand circle. As for the right… there’s only her name inked inside, and a whole heaping of fear and guilt wrapped up in the barely-there name she’s penciled beneath it: eight letters, not yet committed to paper.

She could erase those letters, move them to the left. Then things would be so much simpler. Then there would only be one circle, one group of names.

(And the word ‘Jester’, all alone.)

How can she ask anyone to come here? Kirn didn’t hesitate to murder his own pupils; he definitely won’t hesitate to murder one of her friends. And he promised to keep her safe. Maybe, if she just waits, she can find her own way out. Once they get to Issylra, then she can look for an escape. Then- 

Then nobody else has to get hurt. 

Jester places her eraser at the edge of the right-hand circle. 

Starts to rub. 

Hesitates.

***

Nott hasn’t been outside in two weeks. 

The streets are foreign after so long in the Sewn Teeth hideout, their bustle too bright, too loud. Back in the company of companions, she feels safe enough to get by on bandages and bluster alone, and so she saves her spells for when they might need them more. No matter what happens, today’s going to be their last day in the city. If they don’t make it out of Rexxentrum tonight, it’s not going to matter who recognizes her. 

Orana walks ahead of the party. It’s the first time Nott’s seen her dressed in anything but the characteristic black hood and leather armor of her organization, but for the day’s expedition she’s donned a plain coat and trousers, looking to all the world like a common merchant out for a stroll. Her shirt bulges with concealed layers of linen, bound thickly enough to turn away even the sharpest blade. Nott didn’t bother with the same treatment. It’s not knives she’s worried about, and she doesn’t think any amount of cloth will protect her against the type of danger they’re walking into.

Beau abandoned her fine coat and vest in the hideout before they left, leaving her with only the white shirt, and the barest hint of blue peeping out from her collar. It probably would have been smarter to leave the sash with the rest of her discarded clothing. Cobalt blue isn’t a safe colour: not in this city, not now. But they don’t have the time to go back for the rest of Beau’s things, and it’s no less conspicuous than the pink haversack slung across Nott’s back.

Orana leads the two of them off the main road through a series of twists and turns, until eventually they end up in a secluded alley. As they come around the corner, they come upon a covered cart and two horses hitched to a wooden post. Leon steps out from the shadows with one of the scouts, both dressed in the same plain clothes as Orana. 

Beau eyes the cart. “What’s this for?”

Leon boosts up into the back of the cart and pulls back the canvas tarp, revealing a stack of mismatched wooden crates. “Your carriage,” he says. Nott creeps closer, ignoring the horses’ nervous knickering, and peeks over the edge to get a better look.

The crates are of varying lengths and sizes - some are barely a foot deep, while others span near to the length of the cart bed. Their thick wooden sides are reinforced with iron bands.  Leon pries up the edge of one of the bigger ones with a crowbar. The lid makes a strange scraping sound as it comes away, and it doesn’t take long to spot why. The inside lid of the box is coated with a paper-thin sheet of dark metal. As Nott looks more closely, she sees that the sides are lined the same way, though it’s hard to tell about the bottom, since it’s covered in a layer of bruised potatoes.

“The best way - the only way, really - to sneak something into the Soltryce Academy is to ship it in,” Orana explains, picking up a potato and tossing it in the air. “There are a lot of mouths to feed in there, which means a lot of deliveries. There’s no way anyone could check every box that comes through.”

“And just in case,” Leon raps his knuckles against the metal. “Lead. Keeps any of those pesky detection spells from peeking in.”

“You’ve done this before?” Nott pulls herself up into the cart beside Leon. Standing on the cart bed, the open crate comes nearly up to her hips.

“With smaller things? Sure. Correspondence, mostly. Letters, orders, that kind of thing.”

“Correspondence with who?” Beau asks.

“With the person who was originally supposed to deliver your chalk.” Orana shrugs at Beau’s incredulous expression. “What, you think we’ve spent this long investigating the Academy without getting someone on the inside? A few somebodies, actually. It’s not like they could do much except observe before now, but we figured it would come in handy before long. Turns out, we were right about that.” Orana takes a bit of chalk from her pocket - the plain white kind, not the fancy stuff weighing down Beau’s pocket - and marks a few quick strokes along the edge of the lid. She’s a bit rusty on the language, but Nott still remembers enough from her back-alley wanderings to recognize Thieves’ Cant when she sees it. “We already sent a message yesterday, telling them to be on the lookout for a shipment.” 

“Did you warn your contact that the shipment was going to include _people_?” Beau deadpans.

“Hey, I’m not the one who changed the plan last minute,” Orana fires back, but as she replaces the chalk in her bag she softens. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m perfectly happy not to risk our contact’s safety any more than we have to. I didn’t exactly relish the idea of my people running contraband around the Academy halls.”

“If you had people on the inside already, then why didn’t you spring Avery yourself?” Beau pivots, still unconvinced.

“What would be the point? Like I said, getting stuff in is easy. But without an exit strategy, you’re sunk, and we never found one. That’s where your friend comes in, right?”

“Right,” Nott answers before Beau can ask any more questions. She’s antsy to get a move on. They still don’t know exactly when Jester’s final message will come, and they need to be in position before then.

Orana rubs her palms together, clearing the last of the white dust from her fingers. “Then… are we ready? The next shipment’s due in an hour.”

Nott looks at Beau, who looks at Orana. “I guess we are.” Beau gingerly climbs up into the cart behind Nott, eyeing the crate and its bumpy carpet with distaste. “This is going to suck so many balls.”

It doesn’t take long in the crate for Nott to come to the same conclusion. The potatoes beneath her back seem to have a natural homing sense for every sensitive spot she has, and that discomfort doesn’t get any better once Leon starts tossing more armfuls of spuds in around them. Nott ends up pressing herself right up to Beau’s front just to get one side of her body out of potato-prodding reach. Beau begrudgingly surrenders to the closeness and tries to do the same. They end up pretzeled together as vegetables rain from on high. Orana starts to helps too, and soon the sun is blotted out by layer upon layer of brown. Nott can taste loam in her throat with every breath, and she fights the urge to sneeze as the cart’s jostling knocks down bits of dirt onto her nose.

“I’ll make sure not to fix this down too tight, so you two can breath,” an obscured Leon says, and then the light disappears entirely. The whole of the wooden crate shudders around them as he starts to hammer nails along the top edge, fixing the lid in place. 

Nott wouldn’t call herself particularly claustrophobic, but the connotation of being nailed into a coffin-shaped box isn’t lost on her. She finds herself wondering how much space Leon can really be leaving with that many nails, and if they’ll have enough air to last the trip, and what if Orana’s contact forgets about them, or doesn’t find the box, or-

The arms around her tighten, pulling her closer until she’s practically adhered to Beau’s chest. A few more of the potatoes shift and settle around her back. “This is kind of the worst, right?” Beau mutters, a little tremor in her voice that turns into a cough. Nott tightens her nails into Beau’s shirt. It’s an awkward position that they’re in - it’s been barely a minute and they’re both already hot and sticky, and Nott’s breath must be terrible up this close. Beau’s certainly is, but Nott will take it over the taste of dirt any day.

“No,” Nott says. “I think it’s probably about to get a _lot_ worse.”

“Great, that’s encouraging and not at all ominous.”

“Well, you know me. Sunshine and daisies, just, twenty-four-seven.”

Beau chuckles and the low sound reverberates through Nott’s chest. She closes her eyes and listens to Beau’s heartbeat, and doesn’t think about the air running out. Doesn’t think about drowning on dry land.

There’s the muffled slap of a palm against flesh, and the cart rumbles below them as it jerks into motion. The clip-clop of horse’s hooves and the faint click of wheels against cobblestone filter through the boards, though only just. Nott starts to say something else, a joke to ease the tension, anything to get her mind off what where they’re going, and how, and what waits for them on the other side, but Beau shushes her.

“Potatoes don’t talk,” she reminds Nott. “And we don’t know how soon before we get there.”

‘Soon’ turns out to be about thirty minutes or so, at which point the cart finally halts, and Nott’s side finally gets a break from the rattling pressure that she’s sure will have transformed her body into a dappled canvas of bruises by tomorrow. She barely gets a moment to breath before the crate begins to tilt. As much as she hated how tightly Leon packed them in, she’s grateful now that there isn’t far to slide as their horizontal world turns suddenly, disconcertingly vertical. Vertigo sends her head spinning till she has no idea which way is up and finally, the crate is lowered down onto another hard surface, tilting back and settling until they’re blessedly horizontal once more. Something heavy slams down onto the lid, and Nott grits her teeth as the impact rattles her bones from tip to toe. 

There’s the sound of indistinct conversation from just above them. Nott and Beau keep as silent and still as possible. Then another sound, a louder one: a creaking groan ahead of them, powerful enough to penetrate through the lead-lined walls of the crate. They’re moving again, and in the distance Nott hears the groaning sound again - behind them this time, and farther back.

 _Gates_ , Nott realizes.

 _We just went through the gates_.

And so, for the first time, Nott finds herself within the grounds of the Soltryce Academy.

***

Jester puts her eraser down on the couch beside her and stands. She places her hand on the knob of the door, the one she hasn’t dared open since Kirn shut it. Forces herself to turn the handle. Forces herself to look.

The bodies are there on their stone slabs, still pristine in their moments after death. If she pulled the shrouds a little higher, turned one of them this way, the other that, they could almost be sleeping. She lifts one foot and places it gingerly over the threshold of the doorway.

It would be easier to bear, if she couldn’t see them. If she didn’t have to look. It would be easier.

But that would be another lie, wouldn’t it? Another way to pretend all of this is alright, somehow, when it _isn’t_ . It _isn’t_ alright. Nothing is. And worse, it would be _her_ doing the hiding. Her, adding the beautifying touches that disguise the horror below. Her, adding one more layer to the illusion that things are just as they should be.

Jester closes the door and leaves the bodies to their forever rest. She sits back down on the couch, and thinks hard about the last two weeks, and exactly who it is she’s been trying to protect. 

She’s been hurting for Yasha every day that they’ve been apart. She’s been missing Beau, and worried about Caleb, and afraid for Fjord. And when she sent her messages, and the replies came pouring in, it was impossible to mistake the relief in all their voices for anything else. That relief was because of _her_ , because _she_ was alive. Because, she realizes now, they were afraid for her too. 

So.

So, maybe she’s been going about this whole trust thing wrong. She asked Fjord and Caduceus to trust her, and Andras. That makes her kind of a hypocrite if she can’t do the same, right? If she can’t trust them too, just for a while?

She sets aside the eraser, and the second circle stays. Jester primes another message - number seven of the day. Maybe this is when her luck finally turns around.

“Hey, Caduceus? So, I figured out your part of the plan for tomorrow. Pretty simple, actually.” She forces herself to say the words before her courage flees. “…Could you come rescue me? Please?”

Caduceus’s reply rumbles through her chest like a cat’s purr, swift and assuring. The ‘C’ gets a little runny as she inks it in, but that’s fine. It’s ok to cry if the tears are happy ones. 

Caduceus is coming for her, and they’re all getting out together. That’s the plan, the long and the short of it. Nobody gets left behind. 

That’s the only way they win.

***

When at last the lid of the crate shudders and a bit of light creeps through the crack, Beau is about fifty-fifty on whether she’s expecting a lightning bolt to the face. She turns her body far enough that Nott is mostly hidden as the wood comes away. It might buy her a few seconds, at least. 

Her eyes burn with sudden light as an unfamiliar hand reaches into the box and drags her up by the forearm. The potatoes fall into her lap as she’s forced to sit, and for the first time in hours she smells something other than moldy earth. She smells _food_ . Not the fancy patisserie treats or meager servings of quail and pheasant her family favored, but _real_ food - the downhome type she first sampled at the shared tables of the Cobalt Soul dormitory. The scent is almost pleasant enough to drown out the creeping headache that began to materialize in the last ten minutes of their journey. Turns out being rattled around in a literal sack of potatoes isn’t great for the old noggin.

Standing over the crate is a very confused looking man with a very big crowbar in one hand. “Hey,” says Beau weakly. Nott gives a little wave as she too sits up. He doesn’t answer her, looking instead to a girl with water-chafed arms and an equally perplexed expression who stands watch by the door. They’re in some sort of storage room - more crates like theirs are stacked high against the wall, alongside a rack of instruments for unsealing packages. The girl makes a couple of quick hand signals at the man, then addresses Beau and Nott. 

“ _You’re_ the shipment?”

“Surprise,” Nott says, clambering out of the crate. Beau eyes the man with the crowbar, sizing him up before following Nott. He has sauce stains on his collar and apron, and she can smell the grease wafting off of him. A cook, maybe? And if he’s a cook, then they’re probably in a pantry. Guess they’re lucky they didn’t end up as tomorrow’s dinner.

The girl cracks the door open by an inch and peeks her head out. “Ok,” she says, apparently satisfied that the coast is clear. “Ok. I’m going to go, _shit_ , fetch some clothes, I guess. Keep an eye out, Damon.” The man gives her a thumbs up and she slips out of the room.

An awkward minute passes before Nott finally breaks the silence. “So, you work here? That’s cool. That’s cool.” Damon points to his mouth and shrugs apologetically. He makes a little movement with his fingers before catching himself and lowering them back to his lap. To Beau’s surprise, Nott’s face lights up with understanding. “ _Oh_. Gotcha.” She makes a similar hand gesture and the man’s expression brightens.

“Thieves’ Cant,” Nott explains, turning to Beau and grinning. 

She can’t exactly join in on the little conversation that ensues between the two of them, so she sits back and resolves to worry in silence, tuning in only for Nott’s little elucidations about their new companion. She doesn’t blame Nott for sinking herself into the distraction. With nothing to do but wait, she’d be happy for something else to focus on besides the headache and the dread.

_So, we’re all back in the Academy, huh? Feels bad, man._

Fjord isn’t here to respond, so she keeps the comment to herself.

Eventually, the girl returns with two sets of grey robes that Beau recognizes from her first visit to the Academy. Dressed as they are, they might almost be able to pass for students, so long as Nott keeps up a plausible disguise. They’ll just have to hope they don’t run into anyone who knows Beau’s face before they reach their destination.

She fingers the tin of chalk in her pocket. Not long now.

One way or the other, it all ends tonight.

***

Six messages left. One in reserve, and five to spend. Jester checks them off as she goes. 

Five messages, then it’s all out of her hands. She can’t decide if she finds that comforting. 

Five sets of identical words, ferried to five different locations. A library; an office; a cell; a larder; an uncertain _somewhere_. And this is all that remains, at the beginning of the end: a girl huddled beneath a corrupted temple, with hands clasped in feverish prayer.

*~*~*

“Renovation work? Beneath the Temple of Bahamut?” Elgon seems to rifle through the scattered index cards of his memory. “I don’t think so. The Temple wasn’t even built when that teacher was doing her whitestone push. As I recall, she mostly stayed inside the main building - didn’t have much use for the grounds.” He shakes his head. “Wish they had spent more time outdoors, to be honest. That awful husband of hers was always hanging around in the library. Said he ‘liked the ambience’. Pale enough for it, too. You’d think the man had never seen a ray of sunshine in his life.”

Caduceus’s eyes glaze over for half a moment before he holds up his hand to quiet Elgon. He doesn’t notice, continuing his spiel without interruption. “And even if they did, I don’t think I have any records of the building plan. We’ve got no stock of architectural drawings here - Headmaster Valorna had them all transferred to the city archives. For ‘safekeeping’, he said. Not sure what was so unsafe about this library. I keep it well enough.”

“Alright,” Caduceus murmurs over Elgon’s chattering, “on my way.”

“Hmm?” Elgon looks up, but Caduceus is already gone, drifting away like a spectre through the stacks and leaving Elgon to wonder at his sudden lack of conversational partner.

*~*~*

Caleb’s pen clatters to the desk for the fourth time that day. He takes longer to retrieve it than the last three times, knocking about with his hand and brushing the edge of Ikithon’s work. “Right,” Caleb says, “that’s- that’s finished. I’m ready…” The sentence trails off, and Caleb’s chin dips to his chest. Ikithon looks up over his papers.

“Ready for what, Bren?”

It takes Caleb a long moment to find his words again, and when he does, they come out sluggish and slurred. “The next spell.”

Ikithon looks down at Caleb’s page, where the lines have grown more smudged and less coherent with every stroke, his margins splattered with errant drops of ink. Careless work.

“I think it may be time to end for the evening. Get some rest.”

Caleb’s protest is half-hearted, and ultimately fruitless in the wake of Ikithon’s concerned stare. He acquiesces, standing and supporting himself on the edge of the desk before turning towards the door. When he reaches it, it takes him two tries to find the doorknob.

“Should I have someone walk you back to your room?”

“No,” Caleb mumbles hazily. “I can find my own way.”

He shuts the door behind him and stumbles down the hallway, faltering footsteps forming a slow, uneven rhythm. Every few feet, he braces himself on the wall and takes a steadying breath, as though overcome by the effort of simply moving. 

Caleb turns the corner, and the rhythm begins to change. His dragging feet pick up into a steady gait, his unsure steps now steady and quick. As he reaches another intersection, what once was slackjawed, vacant emptiness hardens to stony determination. 

The passage to the right leads to his bedroom. And to the left...

He takes a final deep breath, more honest than the ones that came before.

Caleb turns left, striding towards the Headmaster’s office with all the confidence of a man who’s been invited. He doesn’t once look back.

*~*~*

Fjord stares up at the empty ceiling, his hands laced over his chest. The bed beneath him is soaked through - wetted with sweat and brine and there’s no way to rid himself of either, other than turning the mattress a second time. Nothing has moved in this room in six hours, including him.

The silence is broken by the slightest twitch - a turning of the head - a soft response. 

“Got it. I’ll be here, then. Just... waiting.”

The word echoes through the silent air, rebounding between formless walls and the dark pit that might have been a floor once in another light, or in any light at all. 

_Waiting._

**_Waiting._ **

*~*~*

There are three bottles lined up on the edge of Yeza’s alchemy table: one for sleep, one for damage, one for escape. Yeza takes the third and brings it over to the side of Yasha’s chair. The bedsheet sling hanging from his shoulder reaches past his hip, its many-sided cargo bouncing lightly with each step. Yasha’s fingers flex beneath the metal bonds as he approaches.

“Now?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

She squeezes her hands into fists, and after a beat, a shiver runs down her arms. All the bristled hairs stand on end as she mouths her way through an unheard conversation. 

“Yeza,” she says at last. “ _Now_.”

Yeza uncorks the bottle and begins to pour. The restraints sizzle like meat over a fire, a sound as harsh as the phosphoric fumes that begin to drift up into the air. Yeza covers his mouth with his other hand, and Yasha holds her breath as the smoke curls around her cheeks: a second skin of gunmetal and ash. 

Through all the drifting debris, the faintest trace of a smile appears. 

*~*~*

The signal comes to Beau last, an hour after Damon’s departure for his next shift, who leaves them with little else but instructions on how to reach the main floor undetected. Jester’s faint voice trickles in past the mounting ache in her temples, her words enthusiastic, but a bit weary from repetition. 

**_Alright, Mighty Nein, it’s go time! Good luck! Don’t die! See you all soon!_ **

“See you soon, Jester,” Beau murmurs, and pushes herself to her feet.

“We’re good?” Nott asks as she follows suit. Beau puts her hand on Nott’s shoulder as they both turn to face the door - a portal to the unknown and maybe, just maybe, a chance to save everyone this time around.

No fear.

No stupid moves.

No more friends buried beneath driven snow. 

“We’re good,” says Beau. “Let’s do this thing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is probably obvious, we're gearing up towards the end here! I'm guessing we've got about 5-ish more chapters after this, give or take an epilogue. Might seem like there's still way too much to resolve, but a lot can happen in five chapters :)
> 
> I appreciate your patience in advance - this chapter came a little later than I'd have liked, and the next couple may be delayed as well. I'm currently taking time off work to care for a sick family member, and that's made it difficult to set aside consistent chunks of time (and energy, to be honest) for writing. Things are slowly getting better, thankfully, and I'm still managing to sneak it in when I can! I'm hopeful that I'll be back to my normal schedule within the month.


	19. Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caduceus finds a way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your patience. This is not a chapter I wanted to rush.
> 
> Chapter-specific warnings: grief.

_A beautiful afternoon, some seventy years before the one that follows, finds Caduceus walking behind his grandmother, the two of them framed between rows of gravestones. The sun flickers through the canopy of leaves overhead, lighting their path with stained glass shades of luxuriant green and yellow, and between the many trees he spies his aunt walking a similar route, then his oldest brother a little beyond that. They each with their own lines to ponder, but his attention belongs only to his grandmother. His short legs pump furiously to keep up with her steady pace. Ahead looms the edge of the grove, hemmed by bramble and the gnarled roots of the untamed forest, and beyond that, the great unknown: the world, expansive and unimaginable._

_The last gravestone in his grandmother’s row is darker than the rest. Its fine marble surface is overrun by a black mold that creeps like an infection from the wicker basket at the stone’s foot. The basket held food once, but after so long left unattended its offerings of sweet bread and fruits have all gone to soil. Black spores now bloom from the weave in the silhouette of climbing branches, curling their way towards the top of the stone and obscuring the name that was carved only months ago. This is the newest addition to their garden: the first of a family, whose elders had promised to return every year to leave similar offerings for their kin._

_(His grandmother had privately laughed, saying the Clays would not see them again, but she laid their food down all the same, just as they requested.)_

_The smell from the grave is something awful - a miasma of decay and rot that fouls the perfumed scent of the flowers that carpet the neighbouring graves. Caduceus shrinks back as their path draws closer to the rank display. He is only five, after all, and such unsavoury sights are still new and disturbing to his young eyes._

_“Come,” his grandmother calls, noticing his hesitance. He obeys reluctantly, stepping forward only a few paces before abruptly turning to burrow his face into her hip. There, he can breath in the earthen aroma of home: sweet and familiar, and unchallenging._

_His grandmother chuckles, the sound crackling like the first leaves of autumn. She allows him this small moment of respite before she kneels to the ground and takes his face in her fragile palms, smoothing back the wispy locks of hair from over his wide eyes. “Do not be frightened, my Caduceus, my willow child,” she soothes. “Death is nothing to fear.”_

_She takes his small hand and guides it to the mass of black mold in its wicker vessel. Their fingers break through the crust of rot together, finding beneath the surface all manner of scurrying things: beetles and worms and winged ants in their burrows, all safe and warm in a bed of new soil. Something flutters past his hand and he giggles, trepidation forsaken for delight as its little legs tickle his skin._

_“You see, Caduceus? Even in death, there is life.”_

_She crooks her long fingers and draws out a handful of the mold, the last of the offering, and scatters it across the ground. Evicted ants scurry down her arm in droves: panicked, frantically seeking the safety of their broken tunnels. He looks between the broken earth and his grandmother’s hand without understanding._

_“That was their_ home _,” he says, with the height of reproach in the face of indignity that only a five-year-old can muster._

_“Their home was small, without room to grow. It was no place to build a family.” His grandmother places her palm in the shattered remains of the mold and grinds down. The ants shy away from her hand, fleeing over the edge of the basket and disappearing into the long grass. She bids them farewell in a quiet voice before turning back to Caduceus. “They are angry with me now, but once they have found new tunnels, the loss will not feel as heavy. Remember, Caduceus: one life must end for another to begin.”_

_She leads him back to the house soon after, guiding him with a black-stained hand past his aunt and brother. They wave as they pass, and his grandmother smiles in greeting, but does not lift her other hand. She seems tired, he realizes now, more so than when they departed. His legs no longer have to move quite so quickly to match hers._

_He does not realize it, at the time, that their conversation was more than simple advice. But when he wakes the next morning, his father is digging a new grave beneath the elm tree, and Caduceus privately ponders, as he watches the shovel rise and fall, if someone also taught him how to say goodbye._

_He does not mourn her death, any more than he mourns for the family who slowly depart in the years to come. ‘Dead’ and ‘gone’ have rather the same meaning to a young mind, and he is much older before he learns that not all leavings come with new gravestones to carve._

_Even so, he chooses to sit by the pile of upturned earth after all the others have said their farewells, and when he’s sure he’s alone, he opens his apron, and black mold and beetles come tumbling out. He watches with interest as they burrow their way down into the soil, towards the place where his grandmother’s body lies._

_Not all the beetles survived the trip. Some were suffocated in the cloth, or crushed in his little hands as he dug into the earth, searching for offerings worthy of her memory. Their corpses speckle the grave like fallen raindrops, unmoving. He does not mourn for them, any more than he mourns for her.  Instead, he pictures the first buds of spring blossoming from their shells, blue and gold petals dressed in black rainment, and feels at peace._

_Their withered husks will feed the soil, and life will begin again._

\---

Only minutes after Jester’s message arrived, Caduceus steps onto the now-familiar path that cuts through the Academy grounds. The sun is just beginning to dip towards the horizon, with evening still a few hours off. Most students are in classes or headed towards the dining hall for an early supper. The acolytes of Bahamut may well have left their posts already, but they may just as likely be in the temple still, finishing their prayers or tidying up for the day. Their presence there might make his task easier, or much more difficult. It’s hard to say, so he doesn’t waste the energy puzzling over the possibilities. He’ll just have to see when the time comes.

He casts Locate Object as he walks. The ping on Jester’s holy symbol activates, centered on a place not far removed from his last casting. The gentle sound is a reassurance. It helps to keep the nagging worry at bay. 

She’s still below the Temple. That’s wonderful. That’s perfect. That’s the beacon he’s holding onto.

(Without a path to follow, without a voice to guide, how would he know what to do?)

Either Jester forget to tell him how to reach her location, or she didn’t have enough words to do so, but either way he won’t have much to go on once he arrives. The request for building plans from Elgon was a last ditch effort, and ultimately a fool’s hope. His ramblings about necromantic teachers and their ashen-skinned husbands were about as helpful as Caduceus had expected from the halfling. He’ll just have to trust that the way will become clear as he goes. The Wildmother would not allow him to stray too far. He still has a destiny to fulfill, after all this is done. 

The door is open as he approaches, in contrast to his last visit to Bahamut’s temple. He preps a disguise spell, ready at a moment’s notice to become the Headmistress or some other face more suited than his own. But when he peers inside the building, he finds the precaution unnecessary. The dragonborn cleric Jester warned him of is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he’s met with the sight of a trio of children. They’re bent over their books in a tight-knit group, all crowded together on one bench despite the array of pews at their disposal. 

“Hello,” he says, stepping into the sanctuary. Three heads immediately turn to the door, and he recognizes the shortest of the gaggle: Andras, here in the temple just as he said he’d be. “Fine afternoon, isn’t it?”

“Um… hello. Who are you?” the girl asks, not impolitely, but her hands still tighten around the book she holds as she draws it up to her chest like armor.

“Caduceus Clay,” he offers easily along with a warm smile. “I’m a friend of Andras’s.” The two human children swivel to stare at their companion, whose eyes immediately dart to the side. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

Still averting his gaze from the others, Andras nods and stands. Caduceus gestures for him to follow along outside. He does, bearing the confused looks of his classmates. 

A quick glance around on the way out reveals that the sanctuary only has two exits: the one they’re passing through, and a hallway that leads out into the rear of the building. To Caduceus’s disappointment, there are no helpfully conspicuous trapdoors between the pews. That would certainly have made things simpler. The way down must be further in.

Caduceus takes Andras back to the same copse of trees where they’d met a few nights before. “What’s going on?” he asks before Caduceus has a chance to formulate his own question. “Did you hear from Jester?”

He nods. “I did.”

“So she made it to Bladegarden?”

“Well. Not exactly. Here, take this.” He passes the boy a sweet, pilfered from Elgon’s no-longer-secret stash between the biographies of lesser Dwendalian aristocrats. The gift seems appropriate - he’s about to request much more of Andras than what he asked of the orcish child in the library, and considering the state of most of the plants in the Academy, he somehow doubts a flower would be as comforting as he’d supposed back then.

Andras stares at the candy in his palm, then back at Caduceus, making no move to put it in his mouth. That’s fine. It’s there if he needs it. 

“I’m afraid your Master Kirn has been… hmm. ‘Lying to you’ seems like a harsh way to put it. Misleading, maybe. The truth is, Jester was never headed to Bladegarden.”

He expects some measure of shock from Andras at the revelation, but all he sees is the weary resignation of one accustomed to being let down. “If she’s not in Bladegarden, then where is she?”

“Very close by, actually. In fact, I believe she’s still within this temple.”

“What? That’s… _where_?” The shock finally comes, and Andras turns towards the temple, peering through the trees as though expecting Jester to come strolling out the door right this minute.

Caduceus focuses on the symbol’s ping, only to find his time is already half spent. They need to hurry. “I’d say about fifty feet below the sanctuary, give or take.”

“But… that doesn’t make any sense,” Andras protests. “There’s nothing below the temple. Well, I mean, besides the cellar where we put old robes and things, but there’s nothing else.”

Caduceus frowns. He was still hoping for a more straightforward answer. “But she _is_ there.” 

“How do you know?” A wary skepticism begins to creep into Andras’ voice. Whatever trust Caduceus had gained by association with Jester is starting to wane. Another reason to hurry.

“A few ways.” Caduceus gestures to the ground. “The plants told me, for one.”

“The… the plants?” Andras looks around at the thicket of trees, more nervous now than disbelieving, which Caduceus views as an improvement. 

“Oh, yes. They’ve all been very forthcoming, actually. I think they’ve been a little lonely, truth be told.”

Andras doesn’t look entirely convinced, but moves past the point. “So did… let’s say you’re right, and she’s still here - did Master Kirn decide that she needed more time before graduating? I don’t understand.”

“We would have to ask your Master Kirn that,” Caduceus says casually. “Is he here today?”

“No,” Andras says. “He hasn’t been back since Jester’s… since they left. He’s always gone for a few days after someone graduates, to see them off. Or… that’s what he said. He was ‘seeing them off’.” Another ripple of uncertainty passes over Andras’s face. “Are you saying he was lying about that too?”

“Oh, I don’t know for sure. But regardless, I think we should make haste, before he returns.”

“To do what?”

“To find Jester.”

Andras swallows. “I don’t understand,” he says again, more softly. 

“I know,” says Caduceus. “Let’s try to understand together. Can you show me the way to that cellar?”

“I… I guess.”

“Good. Let’s start there.”

They reenter the sanctuary, this time side by side. The other two students scramble to their feet, their books already discarded and forgotten on the bench. “Eli, Julia,” Andras introduces the boy and the girl in turn.

“Nice to meet you both,” Caduceus says.

“I’m just going to give Caduceus a tour, ok?” Andras doesn’t quite manage to keep the nervous shake out of his voice, and Eli and Julia glance at each other with mirrored expressions of unease. 

“Master Kirn isn’t here,” Eli says slowly. “Shouldn’t we ask, before showing someone around?”

“It’s alright,” Caduceus steps in, placing a reassuring hand on Andras’s shoulder. “Master Kirn asked me to look in on things while he was gone.”

Andras’s curt nod isn’t terribly convincing, but Caduceus appreciates the support nonetheless. Deception has never been his strong suit. Julia bites her lip, looking back and forth between Andras and Eli.

“If he said it was ok?” she says finally. It’s not permission, but close enough to it.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Caduceus says, and beckons Andras towards the hallway. He follows, still not meeting his classmates’ eyes. The quiet murmur of whispers follows them out of the sanctuary, and when he chances a glance back, Julia and Eli are still standing together, watching them go.

The hallway winds around the back of the circular temple like a coil of rope, its curving walls unadorned save for the occasional etching, each containing a depiction of a history Caduceus never learned. “Master Kirn’s office,” Andras whispers as they approach one of the few closed doors that dot the passage, no more conspicuous than any of the others. Their footsteps become quietly reverent as they pass, though they both know the dragonborn isn’t within. Part of Caduceus is desperately tempted to stop and snoop around the office. He wants to know more about this mysterious figure who’s imprisoned Jester here, who holds his other pupils in such respectful sway that they advocate his will even in his absence. But he reminds himself again that time isn’t on their side. He can’t afford to delay if he and Jester are meant to meet up with the others, and any minute they spend here could put the rest of the group at risk.

Besides, Jester is waiting for him. He doesn’t mean to be late again. 

As they approach the final door, this one at the very end of the curved hallway, Andras takes a little key from his belt. “Master Kirn sends me to fetch things from the cellar sometimes,” he explains, almost proud for the brief moment before he drops his eyes, lost again in uncertainty. 

“I’m sure you did good work,” Caduceus is quick to reassure him. Whatever Kirn’s intentions with Jester, he doubts his students deserve to bear the blame for it. And he can’t expect Andras to immediately abandon any measure of loyalty he’s built towards his teacher over the course of a single afternoon. Caduceus’s prodding must be gentle, his persuasion slow and unthreatening, if he means to convince the boy to trust him over Kirn. To break with the one that provides for you, no matter how troubling their actions might be, is an act of bravery too great to expect from someone so vulnerable.

(At least, this is what Caduceus tells himself every time Fjord wakes from another nightmare, with sea-soaked earth staining his dark hair, and wonders how long he can let this go on.)

Andras unlocks the door, revealing the first steps of a staircase that spirals downwards into the darkness. His foot hesitates on the threshold. “Are you sure it’s ok to do this?” he asks, no more confident than Julia was only minutes before.

“If it helps us find Jester, then it’s the right thing to do.” He moves ahead of Andras, taking the first step and letting the boy follow in his shadow. 

The staircase grows darker as they descend and leave behind the patch of light that trickled through the door at the top of the stairs. Once they’re out of view of the hallway, Caduceus taps his staff against the wall, and the stone at the top ignites with a brilliance that dazzles the both of them. Andras shields his eyes as Caduceus shakes the staff and wills the light spell to dim.

Strange. _That’s_ never happened before. He raps the stone with his knuckles, but it’s still the same old crystal, alight with the same shade of radiant energy as it ever has, if a few measures brighter.

The brilliance does come in handy, in the end, as the cellar at the bottom of the stairs is completely unlit. The space is sparsely furnished: a few chairs scattered about, various crates and boxes, but little else. Ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the low ceiling, Caduceus runs his hand along the back of one of the chairs. His fingers come away dusty. 

Just as Andras said, there are no other doors leading from the cellar. 

The familiar anxiety begins to tingle in his chest, the kind that tends to freeze his thoughts so unhelpfully. Focus. There’s an answer here. There always is. He just has to find it.

“Help me move these.” Caduceus starts shifting the boxes to the corners of the room. Andras follows his lead, and soon enough the two of them have moved all of them against the walls. Caduceus gets down on all fours and feels about with his fingers, searching for cracks that might reveal a hidden passage. All he finds is more dust, and dead spiders, and solid earth.

The ping on Jester’s holy symbol went silent halfway through their work. He could cast it again, if he thought it would do any good. But there’s no passage down, and nowhere else to check. 

Andras hovers by the foot of the stairwell, fidgeting with the rapidly melting sweet and glancing every so often upwards. “This is the only cellar?” Caduceus asks, knowing already what the answer will be.

“I told you,” Andras says. “There’s nothing else. Only this.”

Only this: Jester still below, and no way to reach her, and no more spells at his disposal that can help. 

A new sound startles him out of the swiftly spiralling despair. A creaking noise: footsteps on the stairwell, hurrying downwards. He realizes with mounting dread that the two of them are in a room with no exits, and nothing to hide behind now they’ve moved all the boxes. “Get behind me,” he mutters, pulling Andras back towards the rear of the room and raising his staff. Its bright tip casts a halo of white light in a ring as radiant fire bursts along the edges of the stone. He holds the spell in reserve, waiting for whatever figure might emerge.

“Wait!” cries Andras, yanking on Caduceus’s arm as not one, but two figures stumble into the light. The sacred flame bursts against the ceiling, showering the room in ethereal sparks that clear to reveal not a dragonborn or Ikithon’s imposing form, but two very frightened children. Julia clutches what looks to be a hearth poker between shaking palms, while Eli holds only a book and an outstretched hand.

“What do you want with Andras?” Eli bursts out while Julia yells, “Let him go!”

Caduceus lowers his staff, Andras still clinging to one arm with an iron grip. “I promise, this is nothing but a m-”

“We’ve never seen you before,” Julia says, pointing the poker accusingly at Caduceus’s chest but yanking it back the moment he starts to reach in her direction.

“I’ve got spells,” Eli insists, too forcefully to be the truth. “I’ve got magic, don’t make me- I could-”

Too late, he realizes what this all must look like, how suspicious his actions might seem. He did not live in Shadycreek Run, but near enough to it to know the fears that parents instill in their children - whispers of strange men who spirit children away to dark basements - aren’t unfounded. There are many monsters in this world, with kindlier faces than his. 

“Let him go,” Julia whispers again, righteous fury given way to a hopelessness he understands all too keenly. 

Caduceus lays his staff on the ground and carefully pries Andras’s grip from his arm. “Go to your friends,” he says to Andras, then to Julia and Eli, “I promise, I mean none of you any harm.” 

Andras doesn’t move from his side. 

“We still need to find Jester,” he demands, still staring up at Caduceus as the low ceiling forces the vast difference in their heights to a more even plane. “You said she was here.” The accusation lies heavy in his words; Caduceus can see that the insistence of the others is wearing on him. He needs to do something, _now_ , to salvage this situation. If any of the three run off and tell someone from the faculty about a suspicious firbolg creeping around, the Nein’s spare modicum of secrecy is blown, and with it their chance of a clean escape.

“Jester graduated, Andras,” Eli reminds Andras, glaring at Caduceus with unabated suspicion. “She’s gone to Bladegarden, like Vash.” 

“She isn’t gone,” Caduceus corrects him. “Look, I know we all only just met, and you really have no reason to trust me, but if you give me just a little bit more time I think I can prove it to you.”

Julia looks between the two of them, her grip on the poker tightening. “Andras? What’s he talking about?”

“He thinks that Jester is still here in the temple,” Andras says, less certain by the minute. 

“No,” Eli insists again. “She graduated. She’s doing something important now, following Bahamut’s calling.” His words take on a pleading edge as he steps towards Andras, offering a hand. “She made it. We’re going to make it too.” More softly, “We just have to work hard, and we’ll be chosen next. We’re all going to be chosen.” Caduceus isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince.

“Is Jester really here?” Julia says, the only one of the three whose spirits seems to be rising rather than sinking. Eli steps out in front of her as she begins to move towards Caduceus.

“This is crazy,” he entreats her. “She’s not _here_. She’s in Bladegarden, Julia! Do you really think Master Kirn would lie to us about that?”

“No, of course. He wouldn’t…” Julia’s eyes dart over Eli’s shoulder. “But what if he’s right, Eli? What if she’s still here?” 

“Just a few minutes,” Caduceus offers again. “Allow me that, and if it doesn’t work, I promise I’ll leave you all in peace.” Julia pauses, then nods. Andras doesn’t offer the same approval, but he also doesn’t rejoin his friends. Outnumbered, Eli’s shoulders finally slump. 

“Alright,” Caduceus says, letting out a slow breath as the tension begins to seep away. He walks to the center of the room and sits down beside his staff, crossing his legs beneath him. From within his pouch, he draws out a few sticks of incense and a handful of dried nettle.

Eli narrows his eyes. “What’s that for?”

“If you’d like to come join me, I’ll show you.” He gestures to the open ground before his bowed knees, then gets to work laying out little ceramic dishes in a semicircle. 

Julia is the first to approach. She drops to a kneel a few feet away, leaning forward to inspect his work. 

“That incense looks different than ours,” she observes, tilting her head as he places a stick into the divot at the center of the closest dish. 

“I make it myself, when I have the time,” he explains. “This batch is made from spruce resin and lavender. It’s a little rougher than what you get from a shop, but I think they turned out rather nice.”

Andras creeps closer, then sits down by Julia’s side. “You’re doing a ritual,” he guesses.

“Sort of,” Caduceus says. “I’m really just setting the mood.”

“You’re a wizard?” Eli asks, still standing with his arms now crossed, hovering over the other two like a gangly hummingbird.

“A cleric, actually.” 

“Do you follow Bahamut too?” Despite her earlier apprehension, Julia looks almost eager now, caught up in the excitement of new magic.

“Melora. Have you heard of her?” Julia shakes her head, but Eli’s eyes widen in recognition. “She’s also called the Wildmother.”

“She’s a nature goddess,” Eli interrupts. Andras and Julia both turn to look at him, surprised by the outburst. “A lady from my village got caught with a shrine to her in her basement. My Da said the Crownsguard took her away. We never saw her again.”

Caduceus says a quiet prayer for the woman, no doubt languishing in an Empire prison somewhere far from anything green, then lights the incense and spreads the last of the dried leaves around. “I’m going to begin now. Feel free to join us any time, Eli.” He closes his eyes and starts to pray in earnest, the scent of sweetened smoke filling his nostrils as he sways.

“Hello.” The scent becomes light and clear as it passes his lips and into his throat: fresh air, blue skies, _life_. He smiles, breathing deeply, as the Wildmother’s presence fills his soul with a familiar light. 

She’s here. In this little pocket of living earth, she _is here_. 

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve had a good talk - sorry about that. It’s been difficult to find you, in this place. I fear something terrible has befallen the plants here. I’ve tried to find out what happened, but I haven’t made much progress, I’m afraid.” 

The scent changes again: not fresh air this time, but more like something out of Caleb’s books, or Elgon’s library - the musty smell of new parchment and ink. For a brief moment, it feels as though there’s someone standing behind him, their cold, probing fingers teasing the edge of his scalp, but just as suddenly the sensation disappears and the fresh scent returns. He relaxes as the warmth of the Wildmother’s love soothes the chill from his spine. 

“You have already granted me so many gifts, and I’m grateful for every one. Your guidance has led me this far. But… today, I need more than guidance. My friend - I fear she’s in great danger, and that to save her I’ll need a miracle. I don’t know… I don’t pretend I understand how any of this works, but if you could intervene, just this once...” 

All he dares to hope for is a direction, a feeling like he’s gotten in the past, that ferries him towards the next step. He isn’t expecting more, so when the feminine voice enters his mind his eyes fly open, wondering if it was Julia who spoke. But no, her eyes are closed, and so are Andras’s. Only Eli stares back at him, uncomfortable and unsure in his awkward stance behind the others. 

Caduceus closes his eyes again, willing his heart to quiet, and listens.

 **_Child of the earth_ **, the voice says again, warm and even and rich and full, like the ground after rain. Like his mother’s laugh once was. 

**_I hear your cry in the darkness. I see the wounds on this land. I feel this pain as my own._ **

He aches to say something back, but he has no words that are adequate. His throat betrays him, closing into a lump as he truly hears the Wildmother speak, for the first time.

**_What is within my power to grant, I will grant to you._ **

He finally manages to force his mouth to open. “What you would grant, I will readily accept.” A hand passes over his cheek, not cold but cool, tracing the stubble along his jaw and brushing over the planes of his broad nose. A touch of tender learning, of seeing without sight.

 **_You know how to manipulate stone already. But stone is a simple thing. Earth changes. Earth divides, earth crumbles and reforms anew. It cannot be bent, as rock or metal can. It must be_ ** **guided** **_._ **

The hand takes one of Caduceus’s and brings it to the dirt floor. Through his palm, he senses the movement of the earth, the shape of the layers below, the rocks and worms and and crawling roots, and then… nothing. A pocket. A void.

An answer.

**_Caduceus, you are my good earth, my precious clay, ready for molding. I only pray that you survive the fire ahead. Go. Save your friend. May you both walk in the light of the sun. You are not made for dark places like these._ **

The hand leaves his, but the warmth in his palm remains. Not the sickening, unnatural heat of the Academy floors, but the buzz of movement, heady and real and _alive_.

**_We will speak again._ **

The incense flickers as the ground begins to softly rumble. He opens his eyes to find the three students looking around in alarm. 

Caduceus lifts his hand from the floor, and the earth moves with him.

He stands and holds his palm over the open floor to his left. The hard-packed dirt crumples and depresses, condensing outward to form an indent, then a hole, then the mouth of a shallow passage.

“Woah,” breathes Eli. 

As he steps down into the newly formed trench, the mouth widens and begins to curve. Its narrow depth expands into a rapid spiral of rough hewn walls, its slope pushing down into the darkness below. He takes another step, and green shoots curl over the places where his heels fall, and then retreat back into the flattened soil.

“Shall we?” Caduceus says. Drawn like moths to his staff’s renewed light, the three acolytes of Bahamut join Caduceus, following as they descend into the earth below.

\---

It takes close to a quarter of an hour before Caduceus senses an end to their journey. Their destination, once impossibly far, is now fast approaching: a prism of emptiness amidst the sea of dirt. 

At his back, Julia clings to a reluctant but unprotesting Andras, the poker still clutched in her other hand. Eli watches their rear, eyes flickering every so often towards the upward slope of the passage, but no pursuers follow in their wake. If any wards were placed to prevent intrusion, they must not have anticipated an approach quite like this one.

At last, the soil breaks away to reveal a floor of wooden beams - or rather, a ceiling. Caduceus clears the last of the dirt from the planks and as he does, the magic in his palms tingles, then dissipates. He holds his breath, waiting to see if the earth will collapse around them now that the spell is over. But the passage holds, apparently content to live now in the shape he’s given it. He breathes one last prayer of thanks to the Wildmother, and though she does not speak again, her calming presence rushes in to fill the void the magic left.

“May I borrow that?” Julia passes him the poker, and he wedges the point into the space between two planks. But even leaning his whole body on the makeshift lever, the wood refuses to be pried from its place. The construction is strong by necessity, meant to hold up the weight of thousands of pounds of earth. Likely stronger than even the four of them combined could hope to break.

“Hmm,” says Caduceus. He taps his staff lightly on the ground, and within seconds a familiar skittering sound greets his ears. As the first of the beetles emerge from the head of the staff, Eli and Andras both gasp. “Don’t worry, they’re harmless,” he lies. 

More and more of the black insects pour out of the staff and down his arm, congregating in a swarm atop the planks. Eli has his hand over his mouth, looking vaguely ill. To his surprise, Julia appears endlessly fascinated. She even crouches down to get a closer look at the beetles as they work.

“Are they yours?” she asks, reaching her hand out and gently touching the smooth shell of one of the insects.

“In a way. They listen to me, at least.”

The beetles make quick work of their task, and when at last he calls them back to their home, they leave behind a three foot diameter of annihilation. The wood is riddled with holes, none piercing quite down to the bottom of the boards, but all interconnected into a latticework of tunneled weakness. He presses an experimental foot down to the center of the circle. The wood bows beneath even that little bit of pressure.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “That worked better than I expected.” Checking first to make sure his leggings are still safely tucked into his boots, Caduceus lifts his foot and gives the planks a mighty stomp. His sole goes straight through the wood. Each subsequent crack with the butt of his staff breaks away more and more chunks, debris clattering down into the light now filtering out of the room below. Within a minute, the whole area is cleared completely, leaving a hole wide enough for a slim individual to slip through. Caduceus sits and swings his legs over the edge. “Give me a little bit to make sure the coast is clear, then I’ll help you down,” he says to the waiting trio. “Mind the splinters.” Then he hops down through the hole.

It’s disorienting, going from being atop a room to being inside it. The wooden wall he faces is bare of decorations, and the stillness so complete that he’s suddenly afraid that he was wrong after all, that this is just another concealed storage area, and that he’s missed Jester completely. But he doesn’t have to wait long before he hears a voice: timid at first, but growing stronger.

“Caduceus?”

He turns to his right, towards a table and a couch and that familiar voice, gone for such a short time but so suddenly, desperately needed, and-

His smile freezes, halfway to a relaxed grin. The person sitting on the couch isn’t Jester. It’s a dragonborn girl, wearing an ill-fitted approximation of Jester’s clothes, with Jester’s sketchpad in her lap, speaking in Jester’s voice-

“Caduceus?” the girl says again. “Don’t freak out, ok?”

“Oh,” he says. “That’s-” 

_What happened?_

_Jester, what_ happened _?_

“-different.”

Jester, this new Jester, who wears a stranger’s skin, stares at him with a hesitation more suited to Caleb or Yasha. 

He opens his arms. 

Whatever reluctance was holding her back cracks, and she’s on her feet, tearing around the table and throwing herself into his chest. He places a hand on the bristly crown of her hair - wiry and plumed, like a bird’s feathers, not soft, not _hers_ \- and just holds on through each of her shuddering breaths. “It’s alright,” he says, again and again. “It’s over. It’s alright.”

It’s only been a few days since they saw each other last, but it feels like an age. Maybe for Jester, it has been.

 _What did that man_ do _to her?_

A soft thump at his back announces Eli’s arrival - the tallest of the three, and apparently too impatient to wait for Caduceus’s help in getting down. Jester pulls away from the embrace as another thump follows. 

“Did Caleb come too-” she starts, looking around Caduceus’s chest, but she cuts off as she catches sight of Julia. The girl cocks her head in confusion. 

“Who are you?”

Behind Julia, Eli reaches up and catches Andras beneath the arms as he leaps through the hole. “Caduceus,” Jester says, suddenly frantic as she turns back to him, “they can’t be here, they can’t see-”

“Caduceus? Andras? Who’s she?” Julia asks again. Andras is safely on the ground now, taking in every detail of the room with a keen analytical eye before his gaze lands on Jester’s face. 

“Hi, guys,” Jester says faintly. “Um. It’s me. It’s Jester.”

“...What is this?” Eli’s words tremble above the silence that falls over the other two. Andras and Julia stand still, dumbstruck at the sight before them, but Eli is on the move, backing up towards the wall. Caduceus waits in the center of them all: the eye of the storm, the last spot of calmness between rising winds of panic. “What- you’re-”

“It’s alright,” Caduceus says. “We’ll all discuss all of this when we get back to the surface.” Low, easy. All this can wait. All this _has_ to wait.

“I don’t- I’m not going anywhere with… whoever _that_ is,” Eli declares. His shoulders hit the wall. “That’s not Jester.”

“Eli-” Julia starts. “Wait-”

“No.” With nowhere else to retreat, he starts to slink to the left, eyes wide with unwilling uncomprehension. “That is _not_ Jester.”

“It’s me,” Jester repeats. The familiar voice from an unfamiliar mouth is disconcerting even for Caduceus, who is accustomed to disguise spells and the eerie disconnection between body and mouth. He doubts any of the other three have had the same luxury. ”I know it doesn’t look like me, but it’s _me_.”

Eli isn’t listening. He casts about instead, looking for exits. “We have to get out of here,” he mutters. “We have to tell Master Kirn. This can’t be- this is _wrong_.” He lights on the far wall, where a single wooden door stands closed, and takes off towards it. “Come on!” he calls to Julia and Andras. Julia takes a half a step forward, but stops as Jester throws her arm out. Andras stares, mute and horrified, at the blue scales that canvas Jester’s skin.

“Eli, wait!” Jester shrieks, “Don’t go in-!” but she’s too late. His hand is already turning the knob, throwing the door open, stepping inside- 

His book clatters to the ground.

Caduceus manages to make it to Eli before Jester. He finds the boy staring at a stone slab. On it is a pulled back sheet, and a body: unburied, undecayed. Instead of flowers, scales and bones bloom from the corpse’s skin into a macabre garden of sharded protrusions.

Eli’s voice is barely there when he finally speaks.

“ _Vash_?”

He takes a step towards the slab, then sinks to his knees in front of the body, and cups one mercifully unblemished hand in his own. Caduceus doesn’t try to stop him. It’s not his place, to choose how another grieves. 

There are bodies everywhere, all arranged in a similar fashion, on simple tables that ring the ornate one at the center. He’s beginning to understand a little of what’s transpired, though the details of it are far beyond him. Jester’s clawed hand finds his shoulder, and he turns to her, sick in the heart as well as stomach. Steady and steeled, as old as he’s ever heard her, she says, “Make sure they don’t come in, ok?”

She steps around Caduceus and ushers him out. He does as she asks, gathering Julia and Andras on the other side of the room, too far for them to see what lies beyond the door, or to hear more than the edge of Jester’s soothing whispers, and Eli’s ragged sobs. 

They need to move, but if there is anything worth waiting for, it’s this. Julia still has Andras by the forearm, still clinging to what lifeline she has. “What’s in there?” she whispers. “Caduceus, what’s in there?”

Andras is silent.

They don’t have anyone to explain this to them. And for the first time in a long time, he can’t find the right words of comfort. This is not something he can soothe away.

And this is how they are: Andras and Julia clinging to each other, and Caduceus hovering over them, searching for what to say, when a dim light flashes and the luminous form of a golden dragonborn figure appears in the center of the room.

***

“Jester!”

The deep shout rings through the ajar door, loud and alarmed. The familiar voice startles Jester’s hand from Eli’s shoulder. 

_Oh no. Oh no oh no-_

“Are you alright? The alarm-” 

They’re too late. Kirn is here. Kirn is here, and he’s going to-

Caduceus and Andras and Julia and-

She looks at Eli, who stares back at her with the same terror. ‘Stay here,’ she mouths, slapping the Trickster’s blessing onto his shoulder before darting to the door. _Please let him stay hidden._

If she can just convince Kirn to take only her, then maybe-

Through the crack in the frame, she takes in the scene: Kirn, facing away from her as his broad form advances on her friends, old and new. “Andras. Julia,” he beckons, somewhere between a coax and a threat. “What are you doing with this man? Come here.” Caduceus squares his staff, the beam of wood steady and prepped to defend. But Caduceus isn’t a fighter: he’s a healer. And there are two children at his back, who can’t protect themselves. “Come _here_.” Andras and Julia pull back farther against the wall. Caduceus’s thin body isn’t enough to shelter them from view.

If she says ‘take me, leave them’, this could still end without anyone getting hurt. There’s no reason to escalate, when it’s her Kirn wants.

She thinks of the far off shores of Issylra. Thinks of a life without her friends. A life without her mother. A life without even her own body for comfort. That future is unbearable.

Isn’t her pain reason enough?

Caduceus catches her eye as she stands framed in the doorway. He lifts an eyebrow: a silent question, uncertainty in his eyes. He doesn’t know what Kirn is capable of, not like her. It’s her call to make. Surrender, or fight.

She pulls the hatchet from her belt. He gives her the barest of nods.

“Sorry,” Caduceus says, mouth tight. “That’s not how this is going to go.”

His guiding bolt hits Kirn square in the chest, lighting the whole room in a gout of holy light, and before the flare fades Jester is already running.

Caduceus may not be a fighter, but she is. Not a healer, but a fighter, until the very end.

The infliction of wounds she failed to cast the first time flickers around her fist as she pelts across the room. Suddenly Kirn is in front of her, his clothes still smouldering with a dull radiance, and as he raises his hand towards Caduceus with an orb of white light forming on his palm, she forces her hand straight into the gap between his shoulderblades. Her talons sink into his back, their edges new and sharp enough to pierce past scale as they curve their way into tender flesh. The howl he makes is horrific in its agony, and she howls back at him, a shriek born of fear and rage and boundless determination, louder than his, loud enough to drown him out entirely. 

He whirls, raising his fist to strike at his new attacker and-

“Jester!” 

His blow hangs in midair. “Wait-” His eyes meet hers, and she finds there such deep sorrow that it takes her breath away.  And she doesn’t care.

“Jester, I know you’re afraid, but I swore I wouldn’t hurt you-”

“You already did, you piece of shit!” Behind Kirn, Caduceus’s spiritual guardians flutter in a hazy dome, surrounding him and Andras and Julia. “Well, guess what, you don’t get to decide how I feel about anything, _ever again_ . I will die before I go _anywhere_ with you.”

Forgetting Caduceus at his back, Kirn takes another step forward, his gaze only focused on her. “Jester, please, if you’d only-”  

Kirn’s amber eyes go milky white in their sockets. “Now!” Caduceus shouts, and Jester lifts her holy symbol, ready to deal the final blow. But before she can manage so much as a single bolt at the defenseless Kirn, the whiteness fades back to amber as the blindness abates, resisted. Shaking with anger, Kirn spins on his heel, the lick of flames and smoke curling at the corners of his opening mouth.

_Oh, gods. Oh, gods._

Andras. Julia. They don’t have armor. They don’t have training. They can’t dodge a dragonborn’s breath.

Oh gods, they’re going to _die_. 

“No!”

It’s not her voice that cries out, nor her spell that brings down the blow from on high. In an instant, Kirn is on his knees, knocked to the ground by the impact of an ethereal sword, with a blade six feet long and a hilt lit with oil slick whorls of purple and rose, the shimmering echo of her lollipop’s hues. Kirn’s firey breath scorches harmlessly along the ground, ending a foot shy of Caduceus’s protective dome. Jester whips her head around and there in the doorway is Eli, with one hand outstretched, the book in the other. 

“I did it,” he says faintly. 

“You did it!” she calls back before turning to face Kirn, currently struggling to pull himself back to his feet, blood dripping from the gash on his hhead. “You know what’s stronger than one cleric?” she says, stepping on his hand as she moves to stand in front of Caduceus. He groans as the bones crackle beneath her foot. “Three clerics. And two of us even have gods that aren’t completely terrible.” She hefts her axe. “But I don’t even need my god’s help to fuck people up. I can do that all on my own, buddy.” 

The blunt side of the handle cracks across his temple and Kirn crumples, unconscious before he hits the floor. Above his body, the ethereal sword flickers, then fades as Eli runs across the room, stopping just short of the body of Kirn. “Oh, gods,” he whispers, standing over his teacher’s prone body. “What did I do?” 

“Nothing you need to be sorry for,” Caduceus says. 

“I attacked him,” Eli whispers. “I attacked a teacher.”

“You protected your friends.” As if on cue, Andras and Julia step out from behind Caduceus’s back. “That’s always going to be the right choice.”

“He was going to hit us,” Julia says, staring down at Kirn, disbelieving, like she doesn’t recognize him at all. “And he didn’t care.”

_He already had what he wanted. He had me. He didn’t need you anymore._

“Here.” Jester pulls a length of rope from her bag. “Before he wakes up.”

With Caduceus’s help, they bind Kirn’s hands and feet. She tears strips of cloth from the gauzy robes he left for her and makes a gag, so tight that even unconscious as he is, his gorge still rises against the intrusion. She doesn’t care. Let him choke.

“What do we do?” Julia frets. “What if he wakes up and tells the Headmistress that we attacked him?” Eli twitches, staring down at his hands. “They’ll throw us out!”

Jester is quietly thankful that Julia and Andras still haven’t seen the worst of what there is to find down here. She’d like to think that the school wouldn’t hold any of it against them, considering the things Kirn’s been up to in secret. 

But then again, what if they _knew_? What if they knew, and they did nothing? 

“We’re leaving this Academy, _tonight_ ,” Jester says. “You could come with us.”

Caduceus gives her a look, but doesn’t immediately protest. Is this the right thing to do? She doesn’t know. They have no idea what dangers they’ll face in the next few hours. It might be safer for the three to stay for today, to tell their part in the story and wait to see where the chips fall. But what about tomorrow? Or next week? Or years down the line, when they bear the same scars as Caleb, wear the same haunted looks, wake from the same nightmares? How could she leave anyone here?

“I think you should come with us,” she says again.

“Then let’s go.” Andras stands between his classmates, mind already made up. “Let’s just _go_.”

“I’m not leaving without all of us,” Julia says. Eli, still staring at Kirn’s unconscious form, puts his arm around her shoulders. 

“Yeah. …Yeah, let’s go.”

Caduceus helps boost the three student through the hole in the ceiling, back into the passage he apparently formed himself. She didn’t know he could do that, but it seems like the Traveler was right. In this place, anything is possible. Caduceus clambers up himself, gone for only a moment before his head reappears. He leans down and offers Jester a hand. 

“Just give me a minute, ok?” she says. “I need to grab a few of my things.” Caduceus looks her over: her clothing buckled, her bags all accounted for. His eyes pass to Kirn at her feet, bound and helpless. He looks back to her.

“Sure. I’ll bring the others on ahead.” She nods. “Jester,” he says slowly, a careful pause splitting the space between phrases. “Don’t take too long, alright?” He doesn’t say _don’t do what you’re planning to do._ It wouldn’t be much good anyway, seeing as she doesn’t know yet what that is.

Caduceus’s head disappears through the hole, and then they’re all gone, and all that’s left is her and her once captor, now captive. She sits on the ground next to him, laying her axe flat across her crossed knees. From this intimate distance, she can finally make out the wrinkles that mark his age, deep depressions visible even beneath the lines of scales. Maybe it’s the lack of green light reflected through crystal, or the open passage above promising freedom as soon as she wants it that makes the difference. But slack-jawed and unaware like this, chest rising and falling just like he’s asleep at her feet, he doesn’t seem quite so fearsome as he did before. 

Like this, he still looks like someone kind.

She takes a deep breath, then reaches over and unties the gag. 

“Wake up.”

He doesn’t stir. She flicks him below the eye, where the bruise from her axe’s handle is just beginning to bloom. He rouses with a pained groan, eyes unslitting rapidly as he tries to focus from his new perspective. 

“No more lies for you.” The zone of truth springs up around them, and a moment later she feels the unmistakable tug of her magic latching on. No resistance at all - he isn’t even _trying_ to hold off the spell. “I’ve just got one question.” He stares up at her sideways from his place on the floor. His hands are still, not pulling at the bonds, though she imagines they must be stiff. Neither she nor Caduceus checked to make sure blood was still flowing as they pulled the knots tight.

“Is there a way to change me back?”

His tongue works around the empty space where the gag sat, smoothing away the dryness along his palate. He doesn’t need a spell to kill her. He could breathe out and she would be dead in a moment, consumed by fire that not even her old tiefling skin could protect her from. But he won’t. 

He promised not to hurt her, after all.

“No,” he croaks finally. “There isn’t. The ritual is permanent.”

She chuckles, a laugh that feels more like a sob as it wells up into her chest. “Then I guess I don’t have a reason to keep you alive, huh?”

He turns his head away, for the first time not meeting her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

She takes the butt of her axe and directs his chin back towards her. “You went through all this, and you don’t even care if you live or die?” She laughs again, no hint of a smile curving her lips. “I don’t know, that seems pretty crazy to me.”

“The Cadre have my findings. My work is complete. I am content with whatever fate is decided for me.” And he must be, because the spell wouldn’t allow him to lie. But it’s not contentment she sees in his eyes. It’s grief, whole and all-consuming, a sorrow whose depths she can’t begin to fathom. For a whisper of a second, she longs to spend the time needed to pull Kirn open, to break apart his defences and see if there’s still something left to save. He lost his home, his people. She doesn’t know what that would do to a person. She never had a people to lose. 

But then she thinks on all he’s done: the bodies on tables, the children he would have continued to hurt if she hadn’t come along first. 

This isn’t something she can fix. This isn’t something she should have to.

“No regrets?”

“Only that I will never see the new Draconia with my own eyes.” There is it, the same flicker of warmth, piercing past endless pain, that he wore as he watched her sample the food of his childhood. Jester wonders now if she might have been wrong about what it was that Kirn truly loved. About whether it had anything to do with her at all. “But it is enough, to know that it will exist when I am gone. You are still my greatest creation, Jester. Your legacy will live on beyond my death, or yours. Your life will have meaning for centuries to come. ”

“I’m still alive,” says Jester. “And the only legacy I care about right now is making sure you never hurt anyone else.”

He closes his eyes. “Then end my life. As I said, I am content.”

She closes her eyes too.

And she does.

***

The three acolytes have already finished gathering their things by the time Jester emerges from the passageway. They haven’t got much to take - their dorms are within the school, same as the other students - but each has a coat, at least, and a token or two slipped into a pocket for good luck, or for remembrance. They’re nervous, but eager to move along. They’ll be alright, Caduceus thinks.

He watches Jester as she walks up in her ill-fitted clothes, still awkward in her new gait. Her axe is tucked back into her belt. Its blade is wiped clean but its handle is smudged with brown. The discolouration could be dirt. It could be an old stain. It could be anything Jester needs him to believe it is, for as long as she needs it. For now, he takes her hand, and gives it a squeeze. She squeezes back.

“Are you ready?”

She doesn’t answer. That’s alright. He understands. Some things are too big for words. 

The five of them say their final goodbyes to the little temple of Bahamut, and walk out into the fading light, together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find at me at [mithrilwren](http://mithrilwren.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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